The lover tells of the rose in his heart

William Butler Yeats (Irlanda, 1865-1939)

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lum- bering 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.