ALL things uncomely and broken, 
all things worn out and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway, 
the creak of a lumbering cart,
The heavy steps of the ploughman, 
splashing the wintry mould,
Are wronging your image that blossoms 
a rose in the depths of my heart.

The wrong of unshapely things is a 
wrong too great to be told;
I hunger to build them anew 
and sit on a green knoll apart,
With the earth and the sky and the water, 
re-made, like a casket of gold
For my dreams of your image that blossoms 
a rose in the depths of my heart. 

W.B. Yeats