All things uncomely and broken,

all things worn-out and old,

The cry of a child by the roadway,

the creak of a lumbering cart,

The heavy steps of the ploughman,

splashing the wintry mould,

Are wronging your image that blossoms

a rose in the deeps of my heart.

The wrong of unshapely things

is a wrong too great to be told;

I hunger to build them anew

and sit on a green knoll apart,

With the earth and the sky and the water,

remade, like a casket of gold

For my dreams of your image that blossoms

a rose in the deeps of my heart.

by William Butler Yeats