After Sailing to Byzantium by W B Yeats
I shall not stand upon a stick but sing
of unexpected love ‒ a sudden
glance
unsought, a dream of what the
night may bring.
Existence is a synthesis of
chance ‒
an ecstasy compelling me to dance
the dance of life, to kiss you
by the shore,
my tattered clothing whirling
into trance.
I shall not hold my tongue but
I shall roar
against the face of fate, into
the maw
of death. Though years steal
by, though I grow old,
I cherish you as I have done
before.
And when I die just beat my
bones to gold ‒
build me a boat, a ship from
memories spun,
then sail with me into the
morning sun.
RJT
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