In 1967 wartime America, I read
poetry by Yeats I never found again
until Sunday in a Cambridge coffee shop
laughing with a friend, like a child
in "Among School Children".
I searched out the Complete Works
to remember...and discovered
more than I ever knew:
that we had been with him in the fire,
feared a slouching beast, mourned Parnell,
as if by design, a road leaving prints
that will not wash out
all the way to Byzantium, trodding
through muddy trails to rare mountain air.
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I like this piece...great flow and rhythm, outstanding theme.