This melancholy London – I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), letter to Katharine Tynan, 25th August, 1888
This melancholy London – I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), letter to Katharine Tynan, 25th August, 1888
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