From: SONDRA BALL

My favorite poet changes faster than the weather.  Today, however, it is
W.B. Yeats.  Here is a sample of his poetry.

The Stolen Child
by W. B. Yeats

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 our faerie vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faerie, 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 trouble
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild,
With a faerie, 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 and the wild
With a faerie, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Awy 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 and the wild,
With a faerie, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand.

And here is another one:

by W. B. Yeats

Between extremities
Man runs his course:
A brand, or flaming breath,
Comes to destroy
All those antinomies
Of day and night;
The body calls it death,
The heart remorse.
But if these be right
What is joy?