William Butler Yeats

(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939 / County Dublin / Ireland)

The Arrow


I THOUGHT of your beauty, and this arrow,
Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow.
There's no man may look upon her, no man,
As when newly grown to be a woman,
Tall and noble but with face and bosom
Delicate in colour as apple blossom.
This beauty's kinder, yet for a reason
I could weep that the old is out of season.

Submitted: Thursday, May 17, 2001
Edited: Thursday, May 17, 2001

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