Poems. William Butler Yeats

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      I, too, grow weary,

      But there is something moving in my heart

      Whereby I know that what we seek the most

      Is drawing near – our labour will soon end.

      Come, deal, deal, deal, deal, deal; are you all dumb?

      What, will you keep me from our ancient home,

      And from the eternal revelry?

      Deal, deal.

      They say you beat the woman down too low.

      I offer this great price: a thousand crowns

      For an old woman who was always ugly.

      There is but little set down here against her.

      "She has stolen eggs and fowl when times were bad,

      But when the times grew better has confessed it;

      She never missed her chapel of a Sunday

      And when she could, paid dues." Take up your money.

      God bless you, sir. (She screams.) Oh, sir, a pain went through me!

      That name is like a fire to all damned souls.

      How she screamed out!

      And maybe we shall scream so.

      I tell you there is no such place as hell.

      Can such a trifle turn you from your profit?

      Come, deal; come, deal.

      Master, I am afraid.

      I bought your soul, and there's no sense in fear

      Now the soul's gone.

      Give me my soul again.

      And take this money too, and give me mine.

      Bear bastards, drink or follow some wild fancy;

      For sighs and cries are the soul's work,

      And you have none.

      Come, let's away.

      Yes, yes.

      Come quickly; if that woman had not screamed

      I would have lost my soul.

      Come, come away.

      And so you trade once more?