A doll in the doll-maker's house
Looks at the cradle and bawls
'This is an insult to us.'
But the oldest of all the dolls
Who had seen, being kept for show,
Generations of his sort,
Out-screams the whole shelf 'Although
There's not a man can report
Evil of this place.
The man and the woman bring
Hither, to our disgrace,
A noisy and filthy thing.'
Hearing him groan and stretch
The doll-maker's wife is aware
Her husband has heard the wretch,
And crouched by the arm of his chair,
She murmurs into his ear.
Head upon shoulder leant:
'My dear, my dear, O dear,
It was an accident.'

      W.B. Yeats

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