I have to confess I had never read anything by the great Irish poet William Butler Yeats until this week, but I'm glad I came across him.
He reminds me of Arthur Rimbaud - but much more pessimistic.
I'm quite ignorant when it comes to poetry (and I think most people are, although claim not to be - but that's a post for another, more vitriolic time).
Amongst his collection I found this 1929 poem.
Her Anxiety
Earth in beauty dressed
Awaits returning spring.
All true love must die,
Alter at the best
Into some lesser thing.
Prove that I lie.
Such body lovers have,
Such exacting breath,
That they touch or sigh.
Every touch they give,
Love is nearer death.
Prove that I lie.
William Butler Yeats
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment