William Butler Yeats (Óèëüÿì Áàòëåð Éåéòñ)

The Arrow

I THOUGHT of your beauty, and this arrow,
Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow.
There's no man may look upon her, no man,
As when newly grown to be a woman,
Tall and noble but with face and bosom
Delicate in colour as apple blossom.
This beauty's kinder, yet for a reason
I could weep that the old is out of season. 

1. An Acre Of Grass
2. At Algeciras - A Meditaton Upon Death
3. Parnell's Funeral
4. To Some I Have Talked With by the Fire
5. Men Improve with the Years

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