Collected Poems, by William Butler Yeats

Church and State

HERE is fresh matter, poet,

Matter for old age meet;

Might of the Church and the State,

Their mobs put under their feet.

O but heart’s wine shall run pure,

Mind’s bread grow sweet.

That were a cowardly song,

Wander in dreams no more;

What if the Church and the State

Are the mob that howls at the door!

Wine shall run thick to the end,

Bread taste sour.

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Last updated Tuesday, March 4, 2014 at 14:50