William Butler Yeats

poems:

21

a first confession

I admit the briar entangled in my hair did not injure me; My blenching and trembling, nothing but dissembling, nothing but coquetry. I long for truth, and yet I cannot stay from that my better self disowns, for a 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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