W.B. Yeats (1865–1939). Responsibilities and Other Poems. 1916.
33. His Dream
I
The butt end of a steering oar,
And everywhere that I could turn
Men ran upon the shore.
There was no mother’s son but said,
‘What is the figure in a shroud
Upon a gaudy bed?’
Cried out upon that thing beneath,
—It had such dignity of limb,—
By the sweet name of Death.
What could I but take up the song?
And fish and crowd and gaudy ship
Cried out the whole night long,
Naming it with ecstatic breath,
Because it had such dignity
By the sweet name of Death.