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
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