Poem of the Week is a new feature at The Metropolitan Field Guide which will offer one of my photographs along with a poem or a quote relating to some aspect of natural history. The following poem is from one of my favorite poets, William Butler Yeats.
The Withering of the Boughs
William Butler Yeats
I cried when the moon was mutmuring to the birds:
‘Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will,
I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words,
For the roads are unending, and there is no place to my mind.’
The honey-pale moon lay low on the sleepy hill,
And I fell asleep upon lonely Echtge of streams.
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.
I know of the leafy paths that the witches take
Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles of wool,
And their secret smile, out…
Poem of the Week is a new feature at The Metropolitan Field Guide which will offer one of my photographs along with a poem or a quote relating to some aspect of natural history. For the inaugural edition, this is a poem by John Clare, an English poet from the 1800’s who was known at the time as “the Northamptonshire Peasant Poet” although he felt he didn’t belong among the peasants.
These tiny loiterers on the barley’s beard,
And happy units of a numerous herd
Of playfellows, the laughing Summer brings,
Mocking the sunshine on their glittering wings,
How merrily they creep, and run, and fly!
No kin they bear to labour’s drudgery,
Smoothing the velvet of the pale hedge-rose;
And where they fly for dinner no one knows –
The dew-drops feed them not – they love the shine
Of noon, whose suns may bring them golden wine
All day they’re playing in their Sunday dress –