Poem 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. 

1. Tom at Cruachan
2. Me Peacock
3. The Fairy Pendant
4. Under Ben Bulben
5. The Cap and Bells

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