For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard
All valiant dus>t that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
��WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
901 Where My Books go
the woids that I utter, And all the words that I write, Must spread out their wings untiring,
And never rest in then flight, Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,
And sing to -you in the night, Beyond where the waters arc moving, Storm-darken'd or btarry bright.
902 When You are Old
WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true; But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;