I thought my dear must her own soul destroy,
So did
fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon
enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.
And when
the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable
sea;
Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream
itself enchanted me:
Players and painted stage took all my love,
And
not those things that they were emblems of.
Those masterful images
because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of
refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a
broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut
Who keeps
the till. Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders
start,
In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
--William Butler
Yeats
Last revised January 15, 2001
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