The Author William Butler Yeats

The Arrow


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.


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Return to the William Butler Yeats Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; The Attack on ‘The Playboy of the Western World,’ 1907

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