Poem by William Butler Yeats

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 Lamentation of the Old Pensioner
2. The Indian upon God
3. The Collar-Bone of a Hare
4. The Scholars
5. In Memory of Major Robert Gregory

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