By William Butler Yeats

    Indignant at the fumbling wits, the obscure spite
    Of our old Paudeen in his shop, I stumbled blind
    Among the stones and thorn trees, under morning light;
    Until a curlew cried and in the luminous wind
    A curlew answered; and suddenly thereupon I thought
    That on the lonely height where all are in God’s eye,
    There cannot be, confusion of our sound forgot,
    A single soul that lacks a sweet crystaline cry.

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