For my baby, who is not an Angus (at least not this time).
W.B. Yeats (1865–1939). The Wind Among the Reeds. 1899.
9. The Song of Wandering Aengus
|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,||5|
|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 a-flame,||10|
|But something rustled on the floor,|
|And someone 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||15|
|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;||20|
|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.|
(I found it here.)
I hope you like this. And if you don't, don't tell me. Just go out and read something else that you do like. We are in the middle of that prime poetry-reading time of year. Dream of the Rood, anyone? (My British Literature I flashbacks are really strong this year.) I'm going to wait until it gets just a liiiiiiitle bit colder before nostalgia makes me bust out the Seamus Heaney translation of Beowulf. It's such good stuff.
Do you ever let the weather/seasons dictate what you read? I think you should.
It can feel pretty perfect.