THE INDIAN TO HIS LOVE
by: William Butler Yeats
(1865-1939)
- HE island dreams under the dawn
- And great boughs drop tranquillity;
- The peahens dance on a smooth lawn,
- A parrot sways upon a tree,
- Raging at his own image in the enamelled sea.
-
- Here we will moor our lonely ship
- And wander ever with woven hands,
- Murmuring softly lip to lip,
- Along the grass, along the sands,
- Murmuring how far away are the unquiet lands:
-
- How we alone of mortals are
- Hid under quiet boughs apart,
- While our love grows an Indian star,
- A meteor of the burning heart,
- One with the tide that gleams, the wings that gleam and dart,
-
- The heavy boughs, the burnished dove
- That moans and sighs a hundred days:
- How when we die our shades will rove,
- When eve has hushed the feathered ways,
- With vapoury footsole by the water's drowsy blaze.
"The Indian to His Love"
is reprinted from Crossways. W.B. Yeats. 1889. |
MORE
POEMS BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS |
|