Verse > Anthologies > Harriet Monroe, ed. > Poetry: A Magazine of Verse, 1912–22
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Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936).  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse.  1912–22.
 
Running to Paradise
By William Butler Yeats
 
AS I came over Windy Gap
They threw a halfpenny into my cap,
For I am running to Paradise.
And all that I need do is to wish,
And somebody puts his hand in the dish        5
To throw me a bit of salted fish,
And there the king is but as the beggar.
 
My brother Mourteen is worn out
With skelping his big brawling lout,
While I am running to Paradise.        10
A poor life, do what he can,
And though he keep a dog and a gun,
A serving maid and a serving man,
And there the king is but as the beggar.
 
Poor men have grown to be rich men,        15
And rich men grown to be poor again,
While I am running to Paradise.
And many a darling wit’s grown dull
That tossed a bare heel when at school;
Now it has filled an old sock full,        20
And there the king is but as the beggar.
 
The wind is old and still at play
While I must hurry upon my way
For I am running to Paradise.
Yet never have I lit on a friend        25
To take my fancy like the wind
That nobody can buy or bind—
And there the king is but as the beggar.
 
 
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