Okay, so I'm on a Yeats kick this month. Something about his poetry just inspires me, makes me reminisce, and makes me just....sigh.
Here's another favorite
The Indian to His Love
The island dreams under the dawn
And great boughs drop tranquillity;
The peahens dance on a smooth lawn,
A parrot sways upon a tree,
Raging at his own image in the enamelled sea.
Here we will moor our lonely ship
And wander ever with woven hands,
Murmuring softly lip to lip,
Along the grass, along the sands,
Murmuring how far away are the unquiet lands:
How we alone of mortals are
Hid under quiet boughs apart,
While our love grows an Indian star,
A meteor of the burning heart,
One with the tide that gleams, the wings that gleam
The heavy boughs, the burnished dove
That moans and sighs a hundred days:
How when we die our shades will rove,
When eve has hushed the feathered ways,
With vapoury footsole by the water's drowsy blaze.
I was all prepared to write a reaction, a response, an analysis, but you know, sometimes you just want to savor the words...that's what good poetry is all about.
Check out the rest of the Poetry Friday roundup at Karen Edmisten's blog.