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In a cleft that's christened Alt
Under broken stone I halt
At the bottom of a pit
That broad noon has never lit,
And shout a secret to the stone.
All that I have said and done,
Now that I am old and ill,
Turns into a question till
I lie awake night after night
And never get the answers right.
Did that play of mine send out
Certain men the English shot?
Did words of mine put too great strain
On that woman's reeling brain?
Could my spoken words have checked
That whereby a house lay wrecked?
And all seems evil until I
Sleepless would lie down and die.
by gk (gk (gk quattro due due sette @gmail.com)) on Mon Oct 2nd, 2017 at 04:15:50 PM EST
[ Parent ]
Did Yeats foresee the ALT-right?

Index of Frank's Diaries
by Frank Schnittger (mail Frankschnittger at hot male dotty communists) on Mon Oct 2nd, 2017 at 11:40:11 PM EST
[ Parent ]
Yeats foresaw much of the current mess.  I wonder what became of his crystal ball.
by rifek on Tue Oct 3rd, 2017 at 01:01:27 AM EST
[ Parent ]
History doesn't repeat itself, but it does rhyme...
by Bjinse on Tue Oct 3rd, 2017 at 08:03:07 PM EST
[ Parent ]

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