The Magi
By William Butler Yeats
Now as at all times I can see in the minds eye,
In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones
Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky
With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones,
And all their helms of silver hovering side by side,
And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more,
Being by Calvarys turbulence unsatisfied,
The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.