Although I shelter from the rain
Under a broken tree,
My chair was nearest to the fire
In every company
That talked of love or politics,
Ere Time transfigured me.

Though lads are making pikes again
For some conspiracy,
And crazy rascals rage their fill
At human tyranny,
My contemplations are of Time
That has transfigured me.

There's not a woman turns her face
Upon a broken tree,
And yet the beauties that I loved
Are in my memory;
I spit into the face of Time
That has transfigured me.

Added: on February 7th, 2010 at 3:57 AM | Viewed: 3204 times | Comments (1)

Poet: William Butler Yeats
Poem: The Lamentation Of The Old Pensioner
Volume: The Rose
Year: Published/Written in 1893
Poem of the Day on:
Sep 26 2004

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