THE GYRES! the gyres! Old Rocky Face, look forth; <br />Things thought too long can be no longer thought, <br />For beauty dies of beauty, worth of worth, <br />And ancient lineaments are blotted out. <br />Irrational streams of blood are staining earth; <br />Empedocles has thrown all things about; <br />Hector is dead and there's a light in Troy; <br />We that look on but laugh in tragic joy. <br />What matter though numb nightmare ride on top, <br />And blood and mire the sensitive body stain? <br />What matter? Heave no sigh, let no tear drop, <br />A-greater, a more gracious time has gone; <br />For painted forms or boxes of make-up <br />In ancient tombs I sighed, but not again; <br />What matter? Out of cavern comes a voice, <br />And all it knows is that one word 'Rejoice!' <br />Conduct and work grow coarse, and coarse the soul, <br />What matter? Those that Rocky Face holds dear, <br />Lovers of horses and of women, shall, <br />From marble of a broken sepulchre, <br />Or dark betwixt the polecat and the owl, <br />Or any rich, dark nothing disinter <br />The workman, noble and saint, and all things run <br />On that unfashionable gyre again.<br /><br />William Butler Yeats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-gyres/
