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.