"You were silly like us: your gift survived it all; The parish of rich women, physical decay, Yourself; mad Ireland hurt you into poetry. Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still, For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives In the valley of its saying where executives Would never want to tamper; it flows south From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs, Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives, A way of happening, a mouth."
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Academics from EnglandAcademics from the United StatesLiterary criticsPoets from the United StatesEducators from the United States
Original Language: English
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"In Memory of W. B. Yeats", II
https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/W._H._Auden
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