for William Butler Yeats
long had I thought
even without knowing
that ancient Irish song
was brighter than all
was brighter than all
and caught to catch
the nets of the sun
the chalice of the sun
in centuries of winter.
when the swans nor men become
and must fly, wearying
neither living nor dying
how was it woven
of a single thread
thread of the heart not understood
a single wire of living gold
how was it wrought
in the fragrant, in the deep
the sometime treacherous wood
among rose leaves carried
carried in the secret heart
through mountain passes
that climb into the clouds of art,
of beauty at this magnitude, shearing off.
the fairies should not grow weary of the weaving
the maidens hidden away to the glory of God
pearllike I have heard by nightfall returning
those who merely sing
and pray and spin the golden waves
and praise that keeps the earth
from falling out of its place.
wish oh wish the worlds away
who have forgotten this singing
who have flung it spitefully
into the face of God
wish oh wish the furies away
who would have buried it
had not Christ died
and risen again
risen that beauty might find
its river again, of singing
sad have I been, most lone without it.
who would in a moment changeling be
a shadow from the gift of that high song
held in the mind like memory and summery
to which the world cannot belong.
crushed is my heart like the alabaster jar
knowing that what was once so close
is labyrinthinely now so far. let the stars languish
and the world be out of tune
sing secretly to weave
the silver moon back.
mary angela douglas 6 july 2023;2 august 2023
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