William Butler Yeats

He Hears the Cry of the Sedge

I WANDER by the edge
Of this desolate lake
Where wind cries in the sedge:

Until the axle break
That keeps the stars in their round,
And hands hurl in the deep
The banners of East and West,
And the girdle of light is unhound,
Your breast will not lie by the breast
Of your beloved in sleep.