William Butler Yeats

County Dublin / Ireland
William Butler Yeats
County Dublin / Ireland
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The Withering Of The Boughs

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I CRIED when the moon was mutmuring to the birds:
'Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will,
I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words,
For the roads are unending, and there is no place to my mind.'
The honey-pale moon lay low on the sleepy hill,
And I fell asleep upon lonely Echtge of streams.

No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.
I know of the leafy paths that the witches take
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5/12/2021 2:13:01 PM # 1.0.0.578