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William Butler Yeats
The Rose in the Deeps
of his Heart
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All
things uncomely and broken,
all things worn-out and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway,
the creak of a lumbering cart,
The
heavy steps of the ploughman,
splashing the wintry mould,
Are wronging your image that blossoms
a rose in the deeps of my heart.
The
wrong of unshapely things
is a wrong too great to be told,
I hunger to build them anew
and sit on a green knoll apart,
With
the earth and the sky and the water,
remade, like a casket of gold
For my dreams of your image that blossoms
a rose in the deeps of my heart.
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