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The Rose in the Deeps of His Heart

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, 
remade, like a casket of gold 
For my dreams of your image that blossoms 
a rose in the deeps of my heart.

Poem by William Butler Yeats

William Butler Yeats Poems