Saturday, June 1, 2019

W. B. Yeats

As I thought of these things, 
drew aside the curtains and looked out into the darkness, 
and it seemed to my troubled fancy 
that all those little points of light filling the sky 
were the furnaces of innumerable divine alchemists, 
who labour continually,
turning lead into gold, 
weariness into ecstasy, 
bodies into souls,
the darkness into God; 
and at their perfect labour my mortality grew heavy, 
and I cried out, as so many dreamers and men of letters in our age have cried, 
for the birth of that elaborate spiritual beauty which could alone uplift soul
 weighted with so many dreams.