Irish poet, dramatist, and prose writer, one of the greatest English-language poets of the 20th century. He received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1923.

THAT civilisation may not sink, 
Its great battle lost, 
Quiet the dog, tether the pony 
To a distant post; 
Our master Caesar is in the tent 
Where the maps are spread, 
His eyes fixed upon nothing, 
A hand under his head. 

(Like a long-legged fly upon the stream 
His mind moves upon silence) 

That the topless towers be burnt 
And men recall that face, 
Move most gently if move you must 
In this lonely place. 
She thinks, part woman, three parts a child, 
That nobody looks; her feet 
Practise a tinker shuffle 
Picked up on a street. 

(Like a long-legged fly upon the stream 
Her mind moves upon silence) 

That girls at puberty may find 
The first Adam in their thought, 
Shut the door of the Pope's chapel, 
Keep those children out. 
There on that scaffolding reclines 
Michaelangelo. 
With no more sound than the mice make 
His hand moves to and fro. 

(Like a long-legged fly upon the stream 
His mind moves upon silence)