Poem by William Butler Yeats

The Wheel

THROUGH winter-time we call on spring,
And through the spring on summer call,
And when abounding hedges ring
Declare that winter's best of all;
And after that there s nothing good
Because the spring-time has not come —
Nor know that what disturbs our blood
Is but its longing for the tomb.

1. The Dedication to a Book of Stories Selected from the Irish Novelists
2. To Ireland in the Coming Times
3. The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner
4. The Pity of Love
5. The Old Men Admiring Themselves in the Water

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