William Butler Yeats (Уильям Батлер Йейтс)

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. 

1. Tom at Cruachan
2. The Magi
3. Under Ben Bulben
4. The Cap and Bells
5. Parting

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1583

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