William Butler Yeats (Уильям Батлер Йейтс)

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. The Pity of Love
2. The Dedication to a Book of Stories Selected from the Irish Novelists
3. The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner
4. To Ireland in the Coming Times
5. The Old Men Admiring Themselves in the Water

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1847

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