The Apotelesm of W. B. Yeats

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Such a grand story
Of Willy Yeats,
Keeping his warm bed
Under the slates
To a tale of milkmaids
His friend relates:

“At churns in Sligo
The wenches hum:
Come butter, Come butter,
Come butter,
Come!
Every lump as
Big as my bum!”

A milkmaid mounting
The poet’s stair;
A blackbird trilling
His country air;
Butter and bottom,
The Muse was there.

Sheep in the meadow,
Cows in the corn;
Come Willy Butler
Blow up your horn!
Out of such moments
Beauty is born.
[Note: See the story in Oliver St John Gogarty’s: As I was Going Down Sackville Street, pp. 115–117.]

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