The White Birds
I WOULD that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea! / We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fade and flee;
What Then?
❦
HIS chosen comrades thought at school
He must grow a famous man;
He thought the same and lived by rule,
All his twenties crammed with toil;
'What then?' sang Plato's ghost. 'What then?'
Everything he wrote was read,
After certain years he won
Sufficient money for his need,
Friends that have been friends indeed;
'What then?' sang Plato's ghost. ' What then?'
All his happier dreams came true --
A small old house, wife, daughter, son,
Grounds where plum and cabbage grew,
poets and Wits about him drew;
'What then.?' sang Plato's ghost. 'What then?'
The work is done,' grown old he thought,
'According to my boyish plan;
Let the fools rage, I swerved in naught,
Something to perfection brought';
But louder sang that ghost, 'What then?'
More poems by William Butler Yeats
The Sad Shepherd
THERE was a man whom Sorrow named his Friend, / And he, of his high comrade Sorrow dreaming,
He Bids His Beloved Be At Peace
I HEAR the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake, / Their hoofs heavy with tumult, their eyes glimmering white;
The Hawk
'CALL down the hawk from the air; / Let him be hooded or caged