The Mother of God
by William Butler Yeats
The threefold terror of love; a fallen flare,
Through the hollow of an ear,
Wings beating around the room,
The terror of all terrors that I bore,
The Heavens in my womb.
Had I not found content among the shows,
Every common woman knows,
Chimney corner, garden walk,
Or rocky cistern where we tread the clothes,
And gather all the talk?
What is this flesh I purchased with my pains,
This fallen star my milk sustains,
This love that makes my heart’s blood stop,
Or strikes a sudden chill into my bones,
And bids my hair stand up?