Spring in my glorious Auckland has infected me with a strange fever. Poetry fever baby.
My current fave... kinda reflects my mood...
He Wishes
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Mr W.B.Yeats. That last line...? Man.
1 comment:
Yeats was an absolute master. So was Auden. And Ted Hughes. To write like that is the stuff of dreams....
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