Tuesday, February 15, 2005

The finding and the telling

WB Yeats

The Pity of Love

A pity beyond all telling
Is hid in the heart of love:
The folk who are buying and selling,
The clouds on their journey above,
The cold wet winds ever blowing,
And the shadowy hazel grove
Where mouse-grey waters are flowing,
Threaten the head that I love.

I didn't know this poem when I used the phrase beyond the telling. Wow moment here now.

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