Page:The Wild Swans at Coole.djvu/124



great purple butterfly, In the prison of my hands, Has a learning in his eye Not a poor fool understands.

Once he lived a schoolmaster With a stark, denying look, A string of scholars went in fear Of his great birch and his great book.

Like the clangour of a bell, Sweet and harsh, harsh and sweet. That is how he learnt so well To take the roses for his meat.