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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 ploughman, splashing the wintry mould,

Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of

my heart.

 

The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told;

I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart,

With the earth and the sky and the water, re-made, like a casket

of gold

For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

  W. B. Yeats, The Lover Tells Of The Rose In His Heart

 

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