I have met them at close of day

    Coming with vivid faces

    From counter or desk among grey

    Eighteenth-century houses.

    I have passed with a nod of the head

    Or polite meaningless words，

    Or have lingered awhile and said

    Polite meaningless words，

    And thought before I had done

    Of a mocking tale or a gibe¹

    To please a companion

    Around the fire at the club，

    Being certain that they and I

    But lived where motley is worn：

    All changed， changed utterly²：

    A terrible beauty is born.

    That woman's days were spent

    In ignorant good-will，

    Her nights is argument

    Until her voice grew shrill³.

    What voice more sweet than hers

    When， young and beautiful，

    She rode to harriers？

    This man had kept a school

    And rode our wingèd horse；

    This other his helper and friend

    Was coming into his force；

    He might have won fame in the end，

    So sensitive his nature seemed，

    So daring and sweet his thought.

    This other man I had dreamed

    A drunken， vainglorious⁴ lout⁵.

    He had done most bitter wrong

    To some who are near my heart，

    Yet I number him in the song；

    He， too， has resigned his part

    In the casual comedy；

    He， too， has been changed in his turn，

    Transformed utterly：

    A terrible beauty is born.

    Hearts with one purpose alone

    Through summer and winter seem

    Enchanted⁶ to a stone

    To trouble the living stream.

    The horse that comes from the road，

    The rider， the birds that range

    From cloud to tumbling cloud，

    Minute by minute they change；

    A shadow of cloud on the stream

    Changes minute by minute；

    A horse-hoof slides on the brim，

    And a horse plashes within it；

    The long-legged moor-hens dive，

    And hens to moor-cocks call；

    Minute to minute they live；

    The stone's in the midst of all.

    Too long a sacrifice

    Can make a stone of the heart.

    O when may it suffice？

    That is Heaven's part， our part

    To murmur⁷ name upon name，

    As a mother names her child

    When sleep at last has come

    On limbs that had run wild.

    What is it but nightfall？

    No， no， not night but death；

    Was it needless death after all？

    For England may keep faith

    For all that is done and said.

    We know their dream； enough

    To know they dreamed and are dead；

    And what if excess of love

    Bewildered them till they died？

    I write it out in a verse ——

    MacDonagh and MacBride

    And Connolly and Pearse

    Now and in time to be，

    Wherever green is worn，

    Are changed， changed utterly：

    A terrible beauty is born.

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