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    The Lover Tells Of The Rose In His Heart

    by William Butler Yeats
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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.
    Page 1 of 1
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