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[ a realistic view of Yeats ] Fine glasses on that Roman nose A studied wave of hair it flows With dicky bow and tweeded suit An image kept most resolute. He tries to cull a secret rose But pricks his thumb, the blood it flows Ah, lifestream of my ancient kin Is manifest now here within. All comes again, all circles close The poet at his own work glows. Of Irish verse, the great poseur Enamoured of his own grandeur.
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