December 2011
3 posts
4 tags
o, but the mockers' cry
O, but the mockers’ cry
makes my heart afraid,
as though a flute of bone
taken from a heron’s thigh,
a heron crazed by the moon,
were cleverly, softly played.
~ W.B Yeats, 1921.
5 tags
3 tags
He hears the cry of the sedge
I wander by the edge
of this desolate lake
where wind cries in the sedge:
until the axle break
that keep the stars in their round,
and hands hurl in the deep
the banners of East and West,
and the girdle of light is unbound,
your breast will not lie by the breast
of your beloved in sleep.
~ W.B Yeats, May 1898.