Emotions and Feelings

That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Too long a sacrifice Can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?

Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart 5 ; the center cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.

All the wild witches, those most noble ladies, For all their broomsticks and their tears, Their angry tears, are gone.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds.

Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.

In dreams begins responsibility. 4

Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

The fascination of what’s difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content Out of my heart.

The fascination of what’s difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content Out of my heart.

When I play on my fiddle in Dooney, Folk dance like a wave of the sea.

O heart! O heart! if she’d but turn her head, You’d know the folly of being comforted.

But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with gold and silver light.

And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.

Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood, But joy is wisdom, time an endless song.

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old, The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the plowman, splashing the wintry mold, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made: Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days! Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways.

She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed; Gray Truth is now her painted toy.

I could not look on Death, which being known, Men led me to him, blindfold and alone.

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same.

The flanneled fools at the wicket or the muddied oafs at the goals.