Friday, August 13, 2010

A First Confession

By W. B. Yeats

I admit the briar
Entangled in my hair
Did not injure me.
My blanching and trembling,
Nothing but dissembling,
Nothing but coquetry.

I long for truth, and yet
I cannot stay away from that
My better self disowns,
For a [wo]man's attention
Brings such satisfaction
To the craving in my bones.

Brightness that I pull back
From the Zodiac,
Why those questioning eyes
That are fixed upon me?
What can they do but shun me
If empty night replies?

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