Page:The Land of Heart's Desire, Yeats, 1894.djvu/29

Rh .

Father, I am right weary of four tongues:

A tongue that is too crafty and too wise,

A tongue that is too godly and too grave,

A tongue that is more bitter than the tide,

And a kind tongue too full of drowsy love,

Of drowsy love and my captivity.

.

Do not blame me: I often lie awake

Thinking that all things trouble your bright head—

How beautiful it is—such broad pale brows

Under a cloudy blossoming of hair!

Sit down beside me here—these are too old,

And have forgotten they were ever young.

.

O, you are the great door-post of this house,

And I the red nasturtium climbing up.