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W. B. Yeats1865–1939

A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

W. B. Yeats on life and death

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death (1919)

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