Page:The Wild Swans at Coole.djvu/109

 Rh In its own being, and when that war's begun There is no muscle in the arm; and after Under the frenzy of the fourteenth moon, The soul begins to tremble into stillness, To die into the labyrinth of itself

Sing out the song; sing to the end, and sing The strange reward of all that discipline.

All thought becomes an image and the soul Becomes a body: that body and that soul Too perfect at the full to lie in a cradle,