A Month with Yeats: Day Twenty-Five

From the lovely ‘Song of Wandering Aengus’. In keeping with the mystical tone of the Yeats poem, my own wanders into the realm of myth too.

 

‘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.’—W.B. Yeats

 

No more sorrows

 

The dawn is coming, then perhaps the spring,

Though stars still shine as bright as jeweller’s stones,

And no one knows what joy the light will bring

Or sorrows, scattered blood drops in the snow,

When the dream is ended, the water cleared.

Along the moonlit path, frost winter-deep,

Raven feathers lie, and berry blood,

And from the stars that slip now into sleep,

I hear the story of another dream,

And cast a wish into the rushing stream,

To keep my white-skinned love, hair dark as night,

Not watch his blood stain red the winter white.