The Wild Swans At Coole

 THE trees are in their autumn beauty,
 The woodland paths are dry,
 Under the October twilight the water
 Mirrors a still sky;
 Upon the brimming water among the stones
 Are nine-and-fifty Swans.

 The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
 Since I first made my count;
 I saw, before I had well finished,
 All suddenly mount
 And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
 Upon their clamorous wings.

 I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
 And now my heart is sore.
 All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight,
 The first time on this shore,
 The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
 Trod with a lighter tread.

 Unwearied still, lover by lover,
 They paddle in the cold
 Companionable streams or climb the air;
 Their hearts have not grown old;
 Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
 Attend upon them still.

 But now they drift on the still water,
 Mysterious, beautiful;
 Among what rushes will they build,
 By what lake’s edge or pool
 Delight men’s eyes when I awake some day
 To find they have flown away?

-W.B. Yeats (1865-1939)

A Prayer For Old Age

GOD guard me from those thoughts men think
In the mind alone;
He that sings a lasting song
Thinks in a marrow-bone;

From all that makes a wise old man
That can be praised of all;
O what am I that I should not seem
For the song’s sake a fool?

I pray - for word is out
And prayer comes round again -
That I may seem, though I die old,
A foolish, passionate man. 

-W.B. Yeats (1865-1939)