Books author - "William Butler Yeats"
ould never please a high-born child like you. THE CHILD. Old mother, my old mother, the green dawn Brightens above while you blow up the fire; And evening finds you spreading the white cloth. The young may lie in bed and dream and hope, But you work on because your heart is old. BRIDGET BRUIN. The young are idle. THE CHILD. Old father, you are wise, And all the years have gathered in your heart To whisper of the wonders that are gone. The young must sigh through many a dream and hope, But you
ould never please a high-born child like you. THE CHILD. Old mother, my old mother, the green dawn Brightens above while you blow up the fire; And evening finds you spreading the white cloth. The young may lie in bed and dream and hope, But you work on because your heart is old. BRIDGET BRUIN. The young are idle. THE CHILD. Old father, you are wise, And all the years have gathered in your heart To whisper of the wonders that are gone. The young must sigh through many a dream and hope, But you