An Irishman, Yeats won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1923 for “inspired poetry, which in a highly artistic form gives expression to the spirit of a whole nation.”
by Charlie Leck
I spit into the face of Time
That has transfigured me.
I know what you’re talking about W.B., and I share the sentiment, but what good does it do us when the wind only blows the spat back upon us?
Yeats is certainly one of the worthy poets, deserving of some of our time before we pass on. It might profit you to spend some quiet moments with the poets rather than those “cheating housewives of New York,” or whatever they’re called on that small screened machine in your home.
I won’t go on about poets and poetry again after today. After a few blogs about poetry in the last week, I’ve probably made my point. There’s wondrous stuff out there, so worthy of our time and thought. And there is so little time for wasting!
THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS
by W.B. Yeats
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
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