Explore "Michael Robartes and The Dancer" by W.B. Yeats on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
She that but little patience knew, From childhood on, had now so much A grey gull lost its fear and flew Down to her cell and there alit, And there endured her fingers touch And from her fingers ate its bit.
Did she in touching that lone wing Recall the years before her mind Became a bitter, an abstract thing, Her thought some popular enmity: Blind and leader of the blind Drinking the foul ditch where they lie?