Here is fresh matter, poet,
Matter for old age meet;
Might of the Church and the State,
Their mobs put under their feet.
O but heart's wine shall run pure,
Mind's bread grow sweet.

That were a cowardly song,
Wander in dreams no more;
What if the Church and the State
Are the mob that howls at the door!
Wine shall run thick to the end,
Bread taste sour.

Added: Feb 20 2003 | Viewed: 1275 times | Comments (0)

Poet: William Butler Yeats
Poem: Church And State
Volume: Parnell's Funeral and Other Poems
Year: Published/Written in 1935
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