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When I had laid it on the floor. I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And someone called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl. With apple blossoms in her hair. Who called me by my name and ran. And faded through the brightening air. . . .
William Butler Yeats
Literature is, to my mind, the great teaching power of the world, the ultimate creator of all values, and it is this, not only in the sacred books whose power everybody acknowledges, but by every movement of imagination in song or story or drama that height of intensity and sincerity has made literature at all. Literature must take the responsibility of its power, and keep all its freedom: it must be like the spirit and like the wind that blows where it listeth; it must claim its right to...
William Butler Yeats