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TO WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
Tell us of beauty! Touch thy silver lyre
And bid thy Muse unfold her shining wings!
Tell us of joy—of those unaging things
Which wither not, nor are consumed of fire,
Things unto which the souls of all aspire!
Sing us the mystic song thine Erin sings,
Her poignant dreams, her weird imaginings,
With magic of thy "Land of Heart's Desire!"
Let others hate!—from lips not thine be hurled
Reproaches; since all hate at last must prove
Abortive, though it triumph for a while.
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