To The Ghost Of Willie Yeats Poem by Anthony Weir
To The Ghost Of Willie Yeats
Users of glass have no transparency.
Beyond the tombstone palaces of sensual delight
the ultimate sensuality
is dying. Can anything else we do
in the self-regarding Punch-&-Judy show
of psychoclastic Normality
be harmless - let alone be good?
Words cannot be free
nor silence right...
I say to you:
The only art
that's true is how you mould your heart.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/26/2024 2:37:13 PM # 1.0.0.1119
I say to you: The only art that's true is how you mould your heart. So true, well doneAnthony and you have a great style, Love Duncan