The Arrow

Author William Butler Yeats
I thought of your beauty, and this arrow,
Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow.
There's no man may look upon her, no man,
As when newly grown to be a woman,
Tall and noble but with face and bosom
Delicate in colour as apple blossom.
This beauty's kinder, yet for a reason
I could weep that the old is out of season.


Crowd Score: 0.0


📖

Want to save this story?

Create a free account to build your personal library of favorite stories