Poems. William Butler Yeats

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      Ochone! Ochone! The treasure room is broken in.

      The door stands open, and the gold is gone.

      Be silent. (The cry ceases.) Have you seen nobody?

      Ochone!

      That my good mistress should lose all this money.

      Let those among you – not too old to ride —

      Get horses and search all the country round,

      I'll give a farm to him who finds the thieves.

      Demons were here. I sat beside the door

      In my stone niche, and two owls passed me by,

      Whispering with human voices.

      God forsakes us.

      Old man, old man, He never closed a door

      Unless one opened. I am desolate,

      Because of a strange thought that's in my heart;

      But I have still my faith; therefore be silent;

      For surely He does not forsake the world,

      But stands before it modelling in the clay

      And moulding there His image. Age by age

      The clay wars with His fingers and pleads hard

      For its old, heavy, dull and shapeless ease;

      But sometimes – though His hand is on it still —

      It moves awry and demon hordes are born.

      Yet leave me now, for I am desolate,

      I hear a whisper from beyond the thunder.

      Yet stay an instant. When we meet again

      I may have grown forgetful. Oona, take

      These two – the larder and the dairy keys.

      But take you this. It opens the small room

      Of herbs for medicine, of hellebore,

      Of vervain, monkshood, plantain, and self-heal.

      The book of cures is on the upper shelf.

      Why do you do this, lady; did you see

      Your coffin in a dream?

      Ah, no, not that.

      But I have come to a strange thought. I have heard

      A sound of wailing in unnumbered hovels,

      And I must go down, down – I know not where —

      Pray for all men and women mad from famine;

      Pray, you good neighbours.

      Mary, Queen of angels,

      And all you clouds on clouds of saints, farewell!

      I have seen silver and copper, but not gold.

      It's yellow and it shines.

      It's beautiful.

      The most beautiful thing under the sun,

      That's what I've heard.

      I have seen gold enough.

      I would not say that it's so beautiful.

      But doesn't a gold piece glitter like the sun?

      That's what my father, who'd seen better days,

      Told me when I was but a little boy —

      So high – so high, it's shining like the sun,

      Round and shining, that is what he said.

      There's nothing in the world it cannot buy.

      They've bags and bags of it.

      Impetuous heart be still, be still,

      Your sorrowful love can never be told,

      Cover it up with a lonely tune.

      He who could bend all things to His will

      Has covered the door of the infinite fold

      With the pale stars and the wandering moon.

      Thanks to that lie I told about her ships

      And that about the herdsman lying sick,

      We shall be too much thronged with souls to-morrow.

      What has she in her coffers now but mice?

      When the night fell and I had shaped myself

      Into the image of the man-headed owl,

      I hurried to the cliffs of Donegal,

      And saw with all their canvas full of wind

      And rushing through the parti-coloured sea

      Those ships that bring the woman grain and meal.

      They're but three days from us.

      When the dew rose

      I hurried in like feathers to the east,

      And saw nine hundred oxen driven through Meath

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