I have met them at close of day Coming with vivid faces From counter or desk among grey Eighteenth-century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head Or polite meaningless words, Or have lingered awhile and said Polite meaningless words, And thought before I had done Of a mocking tale or a gibe To please a companion Around the fire at the club, Being certain that they and I But lived where motley is worn: All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.
That woman's days were spent In ignorant good-will, Her nights in argument Until her voice grew shrill. What voice more sweet than hers When, young and beautiful, She rode to harriers? This man had kept a school And rode our wingèd horse; This other his helper and friend Was coming into his force; He might have won fame in the end, So sensitive his nature seemed, So daring and sweet his thought. This other man I had dreamed A drunken, vainglorious lout. He had done most bitter wrong To some who are near my heart, Yet I number him in the song; He, too, has resigned his part In the casual comedy; He, too, has been changed in his turn, Transformed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone Through summer and winter seem Enchanted to a stone To trouble the living stream. The horse that comes from the road, The rider, the birds that range From cloud to tumbling cloud, Minute by minute they change; A shadow of cloud on the stream Changes minute by minute; A horse-hoof slides on the brim, And a horse plashes within it; The long-legged moor-hens dive, And hens to moor-c*ck call; Minute to minute they live; The stone's in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice Can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice? That is Heaven's part, our part To murmur name upon name, As a mother names her child When sleep at last has come On limbs that had run wild. What is it but nightfall? No, no, not night but death; Was it needless death after all? For England may keep faith For all that is done and said. We know their dream; enough To know they dreamed and are dead; And what if excess of love Bewildered them till they died? I write it out in a verse— MacDonagh and MacBride And Connolly and Pearse Now and in time to be, Wherever green is worn, Are changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.
TheDino: Yeah and he's right of course.. Who cares what the saddo's think..
If people care what others think of them on the internet then they're barking up the wrong tree..I'm just so glad that I'm not the type to say what people want to hear just for the sake of being liked..I just don't about perfect grammar when I type & all that jazz..I don't associate with toffs here in the real world so it's no skin off my nose.
Mercedes_00: If people care what others think of them on the internet then they're barking up the wrong tree..I'm just so glad that I'm not the type to say what people want to hear just for the sake of being liked..I just don't about perfect grammar when I type & all that jazz..I don't associate with toffs here in the real world so it's no skin off my nose.
Mercedes_00: If people care what others think of them on the internet then they're barking up the wrong tree..I'm just so glad that I'm not the type to say what people want to hear just for the sake of being liked..I just don't about perfect grammar when I type & all that jazz..I don't associate with toffs here in the real world so it's no skin off my nose.
One other thing..I can't see flags as I use a PC & I'm not in the habit of running my mouse over icons I can't see..People mail me and say did you know lalalalala
I was apparently nabbed bad on ali's thread about what do woman want as far as men go or something like that..I must of upset the apple cart
Mercedes_00: Well tomorrow is a public holiday I'm going to the gym..Then I have other plans..Tuesday I'm back into the grind..So that will please a few on here..Bless their hearts
TheDino: Ya never what be's lurking in the shadows of CS to be sure..
We log off let em go for it..I have pics reported you name it..Like I said we log off..When I log off I don't give cs another thought..Better things to occupy my mind
Mercedes_00: Well tomorrow is a public holiday I'm going to the gym..Then I have other plans..Tuesday I'm back into the grind..So that will please a few on here..Bless their hearts
Do you have a real-life job as well Merc, I thought you lived in the gym Happy Easter by the way
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Easter, 1916
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our wingèd horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-c*ck call;
Minute to minute they live;
The stone's in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse—
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
W. B. Yeats - 1865-1939