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The Monday Poem (old)
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The Song of Wandering Aengus by W.B. Yeats - Monday March 23rd, 2015
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W.B. Yeats is one of my favourite poets. There are so many of his poems that I like that it's hard to choose which one to select. Anyway, I have selected this one.The band, 'The Waterboys' have made a lovely CD entitled 'An Appointment with Mr Yeats', in which they set 14 poems by Yeats to music. Here is a link to YouTube, to the version by them of this poem:
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=T8Wn7t4...
Love this Gil. Read the book adeline and it seems Yeats was a favorite of Virginia Woolf, so you are in very good literary company
Lovely poem. He brings a sense of nostalgia filled with hope, before facing the inevitable."Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands...
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,"
Reading Yeats is always a pleasure, so thank you for sharing this one. I really like the poem as a whole, but loved the images of the first stanza in particular. There, is as rich as it is slightly confusing, a bit dream like and it is nicely balanced by the end which is much more easily accessible in it's imagery or sentiment. Lovely. I will have a listen to the band now.
Thanks for this lovely poem, Gill. I haven't read too much Yeats; this makes me want to seek out more.



BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
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,
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,
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
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;
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.
Source: The Wind Among the Reeds (1899)