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They are calling, calling, Away, come away,
And we know not whence they call; For the song is in our hearts, we hear it night and
day, As the deep tides rise and fall : Oh, Death will never find us in the heart of the wood,
While the hours and the years roll by; We have heard it, we have heard, but we have not
understood, We must wander on together, you and I. The wind may beat upon us, the rain may blind
our eyes, The leaves may fall beneath the winter's wing; But we shall hear the music of the dream that never
dies; And we shall know the secret of the spring; We shall know how all the blossoms of evil and of
good Are mingled in the meadows of the sky; And then - if Death can find us in the heart of
the wood, We shall wander on together, you and I.
THE WEST WIND It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries; I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes; For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills, And April's in the west wind, and daffodils. It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as
mine, Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like
wine. There is cool green grass there, where men may lie
at rest, And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the
“Will you not come home, brother? You have been
long away: It's April, and blossom time, and white is the spray: And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain. Will you not come home, brother, home to us
again? The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits
run; It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's
brain, To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring
again. Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the
green wheat, So will you not come home, brother, and rest your
tired feet? I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for
aching eyes,". Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds'
cries. It's the white road westwards is the road I must
tread To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart
and head, To the violets and the brown brooks and the
thrushes' song In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.
THE GOLDEN CITY OF ST. MARY Out beyond the sunset, could I but find the way, Is a sleepy blue laguna which widens to a bay, And there's the Blessed City — so the sailors say
The Golden City of St. Mary.
It's built of fair marble - white - without a stain, And in the cool twilight when the sea-winds wane The bells chime faintly, like a soft, warm rain,
In the Golden City of St. Mary. Among the green palm-trees where the fire-flies
shine, Are the white tavern tables where the gallants dine, Singing slow Spanish songs like old mulled wine,
In the Golden City of St. Mary. Oh I'll be shipping sunset-wards and westward
ho Through the green toppling combers a-shattering
into snow, Till I come to quiet moorings and a watch below, In the Golden City of St. Mary.
One road runs to Wales,
To the white dipping sails.
As it goes singing slow;
Where the bronzed sailors go.
To salt green tossing sea;
Is the right road for me.
And wild with seagull's cries,
The salt spray in my eyes.
My road calls me, lures me
West, east, south, and north;
My road leads me forth
To add more miles to the tally
Of grey miles left behind
SEA-FEVER I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and
the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the
white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn
I must down to the seas again, for the call of the
running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds
flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the
I must down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy
life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the
wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow
rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the
honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes
dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of morning to where the
cricket sings; There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon purple
glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements
gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core.
William Butler Yeats