| I have met them at close of day |
| Coming with vivid faces |
| From counter or desk among grey |
| Eighteenth-
century houses. |
| I have passed with a nod of the head |
| Or polite meaningless words, |
| Or have lingered
awhile and said |
| Polite meaningless words, |
| And thought before I had done |
| Of a mocking tale or a gibe |
| To please a companion |
| Around the fire at the club, |
| Being certain that they and I |
| But lived where motley
is worn: |
| All changed, changed utterly: |
| A terrible beauty is born. |
|
|
|
|
| That woman’s days were spent |
| In ignorant
good-will, |
| Her nights in argument |
| Until her voice grew shrill. |
| What voice more sweet than hers |
| When,
young and beautiful, |
| She rode to harriers? |
| This man had kept a school |
| And rode our wingèd horse; |
| This
other his helper and friend |
| Was coming into his force; |
| He might have won fame in the end, |
| So sensitive
his nature seemed, |
| So daring and sweet his thought. |
| This other man I had dreamed |
| A drunken, vainglorious
lout. |
| He had done most bitter wrong |
| To some who are near my heart, |
| Yet I number him in the song; |
| He, too, has resigned his part |
| In the casual comedy; |
| He, too, has been changed in his turn, |
| Transformed
utterly: |
| A terrible beauty is born. |
|
|
|
|
| Hearts with one purpose alone |
| Through summer and winter seem |
| Enchanted to a stone |
| To trouble the living stream. |
| The horse that comes from the road, |
| The rider, the
birds that range |
| From cloud to tumbling cloud, |
| Minute by minute they change; |
| A shadow of cloud on
the stream |
| Changes minute by minute; |
| A horse-hoof slides on the brim, |
| And a horse plashes within it; |
| The long-legged moor-hens dive, |
| And hens to moor-cocks call; |
| Minute by minute they live: |
| The stone’s
in the midst of all. |
|
|
|
|
| Too long a sacrifice |
| Can make a stone of the heart. |
| O when may it suffice? |
| That
is Heaven’s part, our part |
| To murmur name upon name, |
| As a mother names her child |
| When sleep at
last has come |
| On limbs that had run wild. |
| What is it but nightfall? |
| No, no, not night but death; |
| Was
it needless death after all? |
| For England may keep faith |
| For all that is done and said. |
| We know their
dream; enough |
| To know they dreamed and are dead; |
| And what if excess of love |
|
|
|
|
| Bewildered them till
they died? |
| I write it out in a verse— |
| MacDonagh and MacBride |
| And Connolly and Pearse |
| Now and in
time to be, |
| Wherever green is worn, |
| Are changed, changed utterly: |
| A terrible beauty is born. |
| September
25, 1916 |
