There’s not a woman turns her face
Upon a broken tree,
And yet the beauties that I loved
Are in my memory;
I spit into the face of Time
That has transfigured me.
William Butler Yeats, “The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner”
Terry Teachout on the arts in New York City
There’s not a woman turns her face
Upon a broken tree,
And yet the beauties that I loved
Are in my memory;
I spit into the face of Time
That has transfigured me.
William Butler Yeats, “The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner”
An ArtsJournal Blog