'I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
'Come out of charity,
Come dance with me in Ireland.'
One man, one man alone
In that outlandish gear,
One solitary man
Of all that rambled there
Had turned his stately head.
That is a long way off,
And time runs on,' he said,
'And the night grows rough.'
'I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
'Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.'
'The fiddlers are all thumbs,
Or the fiddle-string accursed,
The drums and the kettledrums
And the trumpets all are burst,
And the trombone,' cried he,
'The trumpet and trombone,'
And cocked a malicious eye,
'But time runs on, runs on.'
I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
"Come out of charity
And dance with me in Ireland.'
Back to William Butler Yeats
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Comments1This poem hit me differently, I guess. A sense of longing for home, for a past that is fleeting, is what I felt while reading. Lines like, "I am of Ireland, And the Holy Land of Ireland, And time runs on,' cried she." It made me imagine an expression of a deep connection to one's roots, which is often intermingled with a sense of sadness over the passage of time and inevitable changes. Love the charm of such words.