ALL things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old, <br />The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, <br />The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould, <br />Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart. <br />The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told; <br />I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart, <br />With the earth and the sky and the water, re-made, like a casket of gold <br />For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.<br /><br />William Butler Yeats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-lover-tells-of-the-rose-in-his-heart/
