On Reading Yeats Again
On Reading Yeats Again
The familiar voice of remembered youth
The Irish song of human truth
Grows clear and sharp with times' advance
As wistful heart declines to dance
Where once it led. His gnarled words
Still rise from the page like wounded birds
And lost in gray twilight overhead
Cry the folly of being comforted.
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Copyright © 1985 Patrick Burton, some rights reserved.
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