September 1913
September 1913 by William Butler Yeats What need you, being come to sense, But fumble in a greasy till And add the halfpence to the pence And prayer to shivering prayer, until You have dried the marrow from the bone? For men were born to pray and save: Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave. Yet they were of a different kind, The names that stilled your childish play, They have gone about the world like wind, But little time had they to pray For whom the hangman's rope was spun, And what, God help us, could they save? Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave. Was it for this the wild geese spread The grey wing upon every tide; For this that all that blood was shed, For this Edward Fitzgerald died, And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone, All that delirium of the brave? Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave. Yet could we turn the years again, And call those exiles as they were In all their loneliness and pain, You'd cry, 'Some woman's yellow hair Has maddened every mother's son': They weighed so lightly what they gave. But let them be, they're dead and gone, They're with O'Leary in the grave. |
رد: September 1913
awesome i love that lyrics its wonderful
thank you so much |
رد: September 1913
اللهم صلِ على محمد على آل محمد وعجل فرجهم الشريف
شكرا جزيلا على المرور العطر دمتم بحفظ الرحمن |
رد: September 1913
thank you very much
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رد: September 1913
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so wonderful .. thanks 4 the good work u have presented here accept my passing [/frame] |
رد: September 1913
:29:
عن ماذا يتحدث هذا الموضوع ؟ لم أفهم شيئ:ermm: |
رد: September 1913
اللة يعطيك العافية
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