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VII

by W. B. Yeats

From Standard Ebooks · standardebooks/w-b-yeats_poetry

Her Friends Bring Her a Christmas Tree

Pardon great enemy, Without an angry thought We’ve carried in our tree, And here and there have bought Till all the boughs are gay, And she may look from the bed On pretty things that may Please a fantastic head. Give her a little grace, What if a laughing eye Have looked into your face⁠— It is about to die.

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This is a source transcription from Standard Ebooks, published in Past Poetry’s public-domain archive without line-by-line editorial notes. Public-domain source edition. Availability can vary by territory.

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