And Here I Sit and Wonder What to Write
And here I sit and wonder how to write
Wonder what I have to you impart
If indeed I have within my heart
The knowledge of a way out of this night.
If, within my soul, I have a flame
To which you lightless ones may move;
If I have see through eyes of love
That see the times and thus the times may tame.
I wonder if I know what you do not
And if I have the means to tell you aught.
I wonder if I ponder hidden thought
That, if left untold, is all for naught.
And here am I in stupefaction stood,
Inquiring what I have that may be good;
And how to tell you of it if I could,
For if I had it, assuredly I would.
And now I know the word to which I’m bound,
The word which, to me, is plainly writ
And yet I balk at simply scribbling it,
Is truly all I have worth writing down.
The only flame I hold within my soul
Is indeed the flame I’d rather hide.
I ought to, with abandon, open wide
And let the words of life within me roll.
I know that I know things which you do not,
That I hold great and everlasting thought.
That my eyes see with love by which I’m bought
And how I’d err to have that love forgot!
I must settle war within my heart
So that peace to you I might impart
And on the road to Life you may soon start.
I’ll hasten that you may at dawn depart.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
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