Behold that great Plotinus swim, Buffeted by such seas; Bland Rhadamanthus beckons him, But the Golden Race looks dim, Salt blood blocks his eyes. Scattered on the level grass Or winding through the grove Plato there and Minos pass, There stately Pythagoras And all the choir of Love.
Return to the William Butler Yeats library , or . . . Read the next poem; The Dolls