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Click hereHis swans have gone from Coole, flown years away
from splashing to the lake, measuring poet's time,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say
was beauty terrible, a history where sorrow lay
ruined in hearts, bled in the land, bred in his rhyme,
his swans have gone from Coole, flown years away.
Commanding flap, their trumpet fading to the gray,
the purpled mist of dusk or dawn, past tower, chime,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say
wears scars like tarnished jewels that fueled his day
in anguish slouching toward a vision of the crime:
His swans have gone from Coole, flown years away,
loss blown like love and seedlings, nothing but to pray
for daughter and schoolchildren, years that climb,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say
can't heal, but even tattered, aged, he raged in sway
of nation spun into the bone of hills and wild thyme.
His swans have gone from Coole, flown years away,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say.
your own trumpet since everyone is tooting it for you. Great poem and really sucky feedback from me. lol
Makes me float above the horizon, suspended in flight. Out of body.Thanks Ange.
magical!
I dont know what else to say, wonderful imagery Angeline and flawless form, I envy you!!! xoxox :)
Got it!!
The lilt and the magic of Yeats, with that story telling sway.
A beautiful piece Ange.
Classical perfection
Thank you
stunningly beautiful and captivating. i loved this one too!
nuff said! xo
....dear one. Needs no comment...only reading and sighs are required!
lol what Perks said!
I was just going to say
Wow.
I think I will go find a new hobby
hehe
this poem lulled me, almost like a rocking chair
feeling a quiet rhythm, knowing someing familiar was right ahead. lovely.
I can't frickin' believe you did this form. I wanna scratch your eyes out. *laughing*
eh, I guess it's ok. *sticking my tongue out*