WB Yeats: looming larger through the mists of time

[lsanderson]

Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, it's with O'Leary in the grave. I will arise and go now, and go to Inisfree. What rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? That is no country for old men. An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick. Was there another Troy for her to burn? Fumble in a greasy till and add the half-pence to the pence, and prayer to shivering prayer … Moar