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-cocks call;



Minute by 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.





