Pardon, great enemy,
Without an angry thought
We've carried in our tree,
And here and there have bought
Till all the boughs are gay,
And she may look from the bed
On pretty things that may
Please a fantastic head.
Give her a little grace,
What if a laughing eye
Have looked into your face?
It is about to die.
[W.B. Yeats {1865–1939} 'Her Friends Bring Her a Christmas Tree', from Selected Poems and Three Plays]
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