Yeats W B

- No chance to even grace your palm with a button From a shirt of calico below a monicled face Not even close can come a single hair to Gently fall upon your shouldered and penful life One uttered whisper from those lips that speaks A single beautiful word for my one thousand And dear Coole Park all daffodilled in honour An honour to you but never to me And Lake Inishfree with castle perched so still as if a stage One to step upon and sing your praise Nor comes close to you my depth or vision That begs and feels to cup your pouring soul Horse men cast a cold eye down upon my write And know you now I hear the hoof that tramples across my page I tried I tried and will again though you may never return this way But may I bow and with honour allow and wave them on their way