The Song of Wandering Aengus
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
By William Butler Yeats
W.B. Yeats is a Nobel prize winning Irish poet of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. His poetry has a strong use of mysticism, developed from his love of ancient Irish folklore. He was alleged to have been a member of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, a group that used magical rites in their exploration of the human consciousness, as well as the natural and supernatural worlds.
Yeats will be forever associated with the region of County Sligo in the west of Ireland where many of his poems were set. He is buried in scenic Drumcliffe Churchyard in that county.