Tuesday, March 24, 2009


Busy busy, time today only to note that in these latitudes it is March, not April, that is the cruellest month. So, a pair from W. B. Yeats (italics in original):
Her Anxiety

Earth in beauty dressed
Awaits returning spring.
All true love must die,
Alter at the best
Into some lesser thing.
Prove that I lie.

Such body lovers have,
Such exacting breath,
That they touch or sigh.
Every touch they give,
Love is nearer death.
Prove that I lie.

After Long Silence

Speech after long silence; it is right,
All other lovers being estranged or dead,
Unfriendly lamplight hid under its shade,
The curtains drawn upon unfriendly night,
That we descant and yet again descant
Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song:
Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young
We loved each other and were ignorant.


Retriever said...

Beautiful poem. Have always loved Yeats. What a great picture you found of him!

Anonymous said...

Poetry makes such a pretty thing of death; life only stinking corpses.