 Easter, 1916, by William Butler Yates. I have met them at close of day, coming with vivid faces, from counter or desk among gray eighteenth-century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head, or polite meaningless words, or have lingered a while in said polite meaningless words, and thought before I had done of a mocking tail, or a jib, to please a companion around the fire at the club, being certain that they and I but lived where motley is worn, all changed, changed utterly, a terrible beauty is born. That woman's days were spent in ignorant goodwill, her nights in argument until her voice grew shrill. What voice more sweet than hers when young and beautiful she rowed to harriers? This man had kept a school and rode our winged horse. This other, his helper and friend, was coming into his force. He might have won fame in the end, so sensitive his nature seemed, so daring and sweet his thought. This other man I had dreamed a drunken, vain, glorious lout. He had done most bitter wrong to some who are near my heart, yet I numbered him in the song. He too had resigned his part in the casual comedy. He too had been changed in his turn, transformed utterly, a terrible beauty is born. Hearts with one purpose alone, through summer and winter, seem enchanted to a stone, to trouble the living stream, the horse that comes from the road, the rider, the birds that range from cloud to tumbling cloud, minute by minute, change. A shadow of cloud on the stream changes minute by minute, a horse hoof slides on the brim, and a horse plashes within it where long-legged moorhens dive and hens to moorcocks call. But by minute they live, the stones in the midst of all. Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. Oh, when may it suffice? That is heaven's part, our part to murmur name upon name, as a mother names her child when sleep at last has come, on limbs that had run wild. What is it but nightfall? No, no. Not night but death. Was it needless death, after all? For England may keep faith for all that is done and said. We know their dream, enough to know they dreamed and are dead. And what if excess of love bewildered them till they died? I write it out in a verse, Macdonough and McBride, and Connolly and Pierce, now and in time to be, wherever green is worn. Are changed, changed utterly. A terrible beauty is born. Easter, 1916, by William Butler Yates, read for LibriVox.org, by Andrea Fiori. I have met them at close of day, coming with vivid faces, from counter or desk among grey, eighteenth-century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head, or polite meaningless words, or have lingered a while and said, polite meaningless words, and thought before I had done, of a mocking tale or a jive, to please a companion around the fire at the club, being certain that they and I, but lived where motley is worn, all changed, changed utterly. A terrible beauty is born. That woman's days were spent in ignorant goodwill. Her nights in argument, and till her voice grew shrill. What voice more sweet than hers, when young and beautiful? She rode to Harriers. This man had kept a school, and rode our winged horse. This other, his helper and friend, was coming into his force. He might have one fame in the end, so sensitive his nature seemed, so daring and sweet his thought. This other man I had dreamed, a drunken, vain glorious lout. He had done most bitter wrong, to some who are near my heart. Yet I number him in the song. He too has resigned his part, in the casual comedy. He too has been changed in his turn, transformed utterly. A terrible beauty is born. Hearts with one purpose alone, through summer and winter seam, enchanted to a stone, to trouble the linked stream. The horse that comes from the road, the rider, the birds that range, from cloud to tumbling cloud, minute by minute change. A shadow of cloud on the stream, changes minute by minute. A horse hoof slides on the brim, and a horse splashes within it. Where long-legged more hens dive, and hens to more cocks call, minute by minute they live, the stones in the midst of all. Too long a sacrifice, can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice? That is heaven's part. Our part to murmur name upon name, as a mother names her child, when sleep at last has come, on limbs that had run wild. What is but nightfall? No no, not night but death. Was it needless death after all? For England may keep faith, for all that is done and said. We know their dreams enough, to know they dreamed and are dead. But what if excess of love bewildered them till they died? I write it out in a verse, McDonough and McBride, and Connolly and Pierce, now and in time to be, wherever green is worn, are changed, utterly, a terrible beauty is borne. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Easter 1916 by William Butler Yates, read for LibriVox.org by Anna Roberts. I have met them at the close of day, coming with vivid faces, from counter or desk among gray, eighteenth-century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head, or polite meaningless words, or have lingered awhile and said polite meaningless words, and thought before I had done of a mocking tale or a jib to please a companion around the fire at the club, being certain that they and I, but lived where Motley is worn, all change, change utterly, a terrible beauty is borne. That woman's days were spent in ignorant goodwill, her nights in argument until her voice grew shrill. What voice more sweet than hers when young and beautiful, she rode to Harriers. This man had kept a school and rode our winged horse. This other, his helper and friend, was coming into his force. He might have won fame in the end, so sensitive his nature seemed, so daring and sweet his thought. This other man I had dreamed a drunken, vain glorious lout. He had done most bitter wrong to some who are near my heart, yet I number him in the song. He too has resigned his part in the casual comedy. He too has been changed in his turn, transformed utterly, a terrible beauty is borne. Hearts with one purpose alone, through summer and winter, seem enchanted to a stone to trouble the living stream. The horse that comes from the road, the rider, the birds that range from cloud to tumbling cloud, minute by minute change. A shadow of cloud on the stream changes minute by minute, a horse hoof slides on the brim and a horse plashes within it, where long-legged moorhens dive and hens to Moorcocks call. Minute by minute they live, the stones in the midst of all. Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice? That is heaven's part, our part, to murmur name upon name, as a mother names her child when sleep at last has come on limbs that had run wild. What is it but nightfall? No, no, not night, but death. Was it needless death, after all? For England may keep faith, for all that is done and said. We know their dream enough to know they dreamed and are dead. And what if excess of love bewildered them till they died? I write it out in a verse, McDonough and McBride and Connolly and Pierce, now and in time to be, wherever green is worn, are changed, changed utterly, a terrible beauty is born. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Easter, 1916, by William Butler Yates. Read for LibriVox.org by Rhonda Federman. I have met them at close of day, coming with vivid faces, from counter or desk among gray, eighteenth-century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head, or polite, meaningless words, or have lingered a while and said polite, meaningless words, and thought before I had done of a mocking tale or a jive to please a companion around the fire at the club, being certain that they and I but lived where motley is worn, all changed, changed utterly, a terrible beauty is born. That woman's days were spent in ignorant goodwill. Her nights in argument until her voice grew shrill. That voice more sweet than hers when young and beautiful, she rode to Harriers. This man had kept a school and rode our winged horse. This other, his helper and friend, was coming into his force. He might have won fame in the end. So sensitive his nature seemed, so daring and sweet his thought. This other man I had dreamed a drunken, vain, glorious lout. He had done most bitter wrong to some who were near my heart, yet I number him in the song. He too has resigned his part in the casual comedy. He too has been changed in his turn, transformed utterly. A terrible beauty is born. Horses with one purpose alone, through summer and winter seem enchanted to a stone, to trouble the living stream. The horse that comes from the road, the rider, the birds that range from cloud to tumbling cloud, minute by minute, change. A shadow of cloud on the stream changes minute by minute. A horse hoof slides on the brim, and a horse plashes within it, where long-legged more hens dive, and hens to more cocks call. Minute by minute they live, the stones in the midst of all. Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. Oh, when may it suffice? That is heaven's part. Your part, to murmur name upon name, as a mother names her child when sleep at last has come on limbs that had run wild. What is it but nightfall? No, no, not night but death. Was it needless death after all? For England may keep faith for all that is done, and said, we know their dream, enough to know they dreamed, and are dead. And what if excess of love bewildered them till they died? I write it out in a verse. McDonough and McBride and Connolly and Pierce, now and in time to be, wherever green is worn, are changed, changed utterly. A terrible beauty is born. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.