Friday, December 14, 2012
The Mother of God By William Butler Yeats
The three fold terror of love; a fallen flare
through the hollow of an ear;
Wings beating about the room;
The terror of all terrors that I bore
The Heavens in my womb.
Had I not found content among the snows
Every common woman knows,
Chimney corner, garden walk,
or Rocky cistern where we tread the clothes
and gather all the talk?
What is this flesh I purchased with my pains,
This fallen star my milk sustain,
This love that makes my heart's blood stop
or strikes a sudden chill into my bones
And bids my hair stand up?