StorytimeWednesday

  The Poets by  Eavan Frances Boland  They, like all creatures, being made For the shovel and worm, Ransacked their perishable minds and found Pattern and form And with their own hands quarried from hard words A figure in which secret things confide. They are abroad: their spirits like a pride Of lions circulate, Are desperate, just as the jewelled beast, That lion constellate, Whose scenery is Betelgeuse and Mars, Hunts without respite among fixed stars. And they prevail: to his undoing every day The essential sun Proceeds, but only to accommodate A tenant moon, And he remains until the very break Of morning, absentee landlord of the dark.

  A Flower Given to My Daughter Frail the white rose and frail are Her hands that gave Whose soul is sere and paler Than time's wan wave. Rosefrail and fair — yet frailest A wonder wild In gentle eyes thou veilest, My blueveined child.

  REQUIESCAT Tread  lightly, she is near    Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear    The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair    Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair    Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow,    She hardly knew She was a woman, so    Sweetly she grew. p. 68 Coffin-board, heavy stone,    Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone,    She is at rest. Peace, Peace, she cannot hear    Lyre or sonnet, All my life’s buried here,    Heap earth upon it.

  I WILL not follow you, my bird, I will not follow you. I would not breathe a word, my bird, To bring thee here anew. I love the free in thee, my bird, The lure of freedom drew; The light you fly toward, my bird, I fly with thee unto. And there we yet will meet, my bird, Though far I go from you Where in the light outpoured, my bird, Are love and freedom too. George William Russell

  The Song of Wandering Aengus                                                                                           by WB Yeats I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream And caught a little silver trout. When I had laid it on the floor I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And someone called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossom in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air. Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.