ON PERHAPS THE DAY THAT WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS PASSED ON

 

ON PERHAPS THE DAY THAT WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS PASSED ON

Language is leaving the cloudy shores

The waves of Innisfree

The poet Yeats lies dying 

In my dream the dream of Poetry is

Weeping inside of weeping

The streams of Sligo mourn.

Is singing still possible in the world 

Is the lilt that lifts the skies

Will ruthless prose reclaim the Romantics

Could we visit the scene, not having been born then

But aftercomers to his reveries would we have known

What kind of king was departing

Such terrible beauty carries us along 

Even mere echos of it though

Now we make do

With our patchwork songs.

But then, his music was for us had we been there

Would have seemed would have seemed

A scroll of stars forgotten, found and stashed

Brought to Light , the enigmas.

mary angela douglas 10 june 2024