The Song of the Happy Shepherd William Butler Yeats

The woods are Arcady are dead,
And over is their antique joy;
Of old the world on dreaming fed;
Grey Truth is now her painted toy;
Yet still she tuns her restless head:
Of all the many changing things
In dreary dancing past us whirled.
To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,
Words alone are certain good.
Where are now the warring kings?
An idle word is now their glory,
By the stammering schoolboy said,
Reading some entangled story:
The kings of the old time are dead;
The wandering earth herself may be
Only a sudden flaming word,
In clanging space a moment heard,
Troubling the endless reverie.

The nowise worship dusty deeds,
Nor seek, for this is also sooth,
To hunger fiercely after truth,
Lest all thy toiling only breeds
New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth
Saving in thine own heart. Seek, then,
No learning from the starry men,
Who follow with the optic glass
The whirling ways of stars that pass –
Seek, then, for this is also sooth,
No words of theirs – the cold star-bane
Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain,
And dread is all their human truth,
Go gather by the humming sea
Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell,
And they thy comforters will be,
Rewording in melodious guile
Thy fretful words a little while,
Till hey shall singing fade in ruth
And die a pearly brotherhood;
For words alone are certain good:
Sing, then, for this is also sooth.