The Wind Among the Reeds. William Butler 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.

      I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow

      Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow;

      And then I must scrub and bake and sweep

      Till stars are beginning to blink and peep;

      And the young lie long and dream in their bed

      Of the matching of ribbons for bosom and head,

      And their day goes over in idleness,

      And they sigh if the wind but lift a tress:

      While I must work because I am old,

      And the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold.

      When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,

      Folk dance like a wave of the sea;

      My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,

      My brother in Moharabuiee.

      I passed my brother and cousin:

      They read in their books of prayer;

      I read in my book of songs

      I bought at the Sligo fair.

      When we come at the end of time,

      To Peter sitting in state,

      He will smile on the three old spirits,

      But call me first through the gate;

      For the good are always the merry,

      Save by an evil chance,

      And the merry love the fiddle

      And the merry love to dance:

      And when the folk there spy me,

      They will all come up to me,

      With 'Here is the fiddler of Dooney!'

      And dance like a wave of the sea.

      O what to me the little room

      That was brimmed up with prayer and rest;

      He bade me out into the gloom,

      And my breast lies upon his breast.

      O what to me my mother's care,

      The house where I was safe and warm;

      The shadowy blossom of my hair

      Will hide us from the bitter storm.

      O hiding hair and dewy eyes,

      I am no more with life and death,

      My heart upon his warm heart lies,

      My breath is mixed into his breath.

      Pale brows, still hands and dim hair,

      I had a beautiful friend

      And dreamed that the old despair

      Would end in love in the end:

      She looked in my heart one day

      And saw your image was there;

      She has gone weeping away.

      Do you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns!

      I have been changed to a hound with one red ear;

      I have been in the Path of Stones and the Wood of Thorns,

      For somebody hid hatred and hope and desire and fear

      Under my feet that they follow you night and day.

      A man with a hazel wand came without sound;

      He changed me suddenly; I was looking another way;

      And now my calling is but the calling of a hound;

      And Time and Birth and Change are hurrying by.

      I would that the boar without bristles had come from the West

      And had rooted the sun and moon and stars out of the sky

      And lay in the darkness, grunting, and turning to his rest.

      I hear the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake,

      Their hoofs heavy with tumult, their eyes glimmering white;

      The North unfolds above them clinging, creeping night,

      The East her hidden joy before the morning break,

      The West weeps in pale dew and sighs passing away,

      The South is pouring down roses of crimson fire:

      O vanity of Sleep, Hope, Dream, endless Desire,

      The Horses of Disaster plunge in the heavy clay:

      Beloved, let your eyes half close, and your heart beat

      Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast,

      Drowning love's lonely hour in deep twilight of rest,

      And hiding their tossing manes and their tumultuous feet.

      O, curlew, cry no more in the air,

      Or