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. Upon a House Shaken by the Land Agitation
2. These Are the Clouds
3. Against Unworthy Praise
4. The Mask
5. Solomon to Sheba

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