The Arrow
by William Butler Yeats
I thought of your beauty, and this arrow, Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow. There's no man may look upon her, no man, As when newly grown to be a woman, Tall and noble but with face and bosom Delicate in colour as apple blossom. This beauty's kinder, yet for a reason I could weep that the old is out of season.
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Return to the William Butler Yeats Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; The Attack on The Playboy of the Western World, 1907
