W.B. Yeats
The Stolen
Child
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid out faery vats,
Full of berries
And the reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters of the wild
With a faery hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping
than you can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight
glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling
glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of
troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters of the wild
With a faery hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping
than you can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters of the wild
With a faery hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping
than you can understand.
Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm
hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters of the wild
With a faery hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than
he can understand.
1886
Death
Nor dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times he rose again.
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Suppression of breath;
He knows death to the bone -
Man has created death.
A Poet to his Beloved
I bring you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless
dreams,
White woman that passion has worn
As the tide wears the dove-grey
sands,
And with heart more old than the
horn
That is brimmed from the pale fire of
time:
White woman with numberless
dreams,
I bring you my passionate rhyme.
About me Words from the
heart My
beautiful boy The
kindest of souls
Words by my favourite
writers Random
pictures