W.B.
Yeats (1865–1939)
The Magi
NOW
as at all times I can see in the mind’s eye,
In
their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones
Appear and disappear
in
the blue depth of the sky With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten
stones, And all their helms of silver hovering side
by side, And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to
find once more, Being by Calvary’s turbulence unsatisfied,
The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.