INDIGNANT at the fumbling wits, the obscure spite <br />Of our old paudeen in his shop, I stumbled blind <br />Among the stones and thorn-trees, under morning light; <br />Until a curlew cried and in the luminous wind <br />A curlew answered; and suddenly thereupon I thought <br />That on the lonely height where all are in God's eye, <br />There cannot be, confusion of our sound forgot, <br />A single soul that lacks a sweet crystalline cry.<br /><br />William Butler Yeats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/paudeen/
