This melancholy London. I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing … - William Butler Yeats

This melancholy London — I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually.

The Wheel

Through winter-time we call on spring,
And through the spring on summer call,
And when abounding hedges ring
Declare that winter's best of all;
And after that there's nothing good
Because the spring-time has not come — Nor know what disturbs our blood
Is but its longing for the tomb.

I gave what other women gave
That stepped out of their clothes.
But when this soul, its body off,
Naked to naked goes,
He it has found shall find therein
What none other knows, And give his own and take his own And rule in his own right; And though it loved in misery
Close and cling so tight, There’s not a bird of day that dare Extinguish that delight.

I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world’s eyes
As though they’d wrought it.
Song, let them take it,
For there’s more enterprise
In walking naked.