When first he saw the growing stick
my father was a youngish man
he got a spade and dug it out,
then cut it – for to fit his hand.
The Walking Stick
Poems
A State of Denial
Rose-tinted reminiscence has its place I agree,
But stare out of one eye and one view will you see.
The Death
The cool of the rushing mountain stream
Splashed in the face of the wounded stag
As he sank to his knees in the shadow cast
By the lonely mountain crag.
Burial of John Moore
In the Remembrance Month of November it is perhaps appropriate that we recall the poem, The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna, one of those hardy annuals drilled into generations of youth (including your editor, perhaps surprisingly considering the Irish Nationalist fervour of the CBS brothers!).
Ballymacdermott May evening
Ballymacdermot –
In the evening sun,
Where jigsaw fields and confidential cottages
Are illustrated pages of local history.
Rainbow Girl
A crisp autumn morning echoes loudly
As young voices celebrate mid-term release
Heaps of leaves capture every corner
Every nook and cranny of the
Mad Old Men
Yeats had specific people in his own life in mind when he wrote the following poem. Students of the man, and of his life and times have little difficulty in putting names to the persons alluded to.