Some may have blamed you that you took away
The verses that could move them on the day
When, the ears being deafened, the sight of the eyes
blind
With lightning you went from me, and I could find
Nothing to make a song about but kings,
Helmets, and swords, and half-forgotten things
That were like memories of you ~ but now
We'll out, for the world lives as long ago;
And while we're in our laughing, weeping fit,
Hurl helmets, crowns, and swords into the pit.
But, dear, cling close to me; since you were gone,
My barren thoughts have chilled me to the bone.
~ W. B. Yeats (June 13, 1865 - January 28, 1939) Irish poet and Senator, founded Abbey Theatre.
First Irishman to receive the Nobel Prize in literature, 1923, honoured for what the Nobel Committee described as "inspired poetry, which in a highly artistic form gives expression to the spirit of a whole nation."
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