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wordsofonebeat

to steal a child

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Jul. 20th, 2006 | 02:08 pm
mood: s a d
posted by: kip_w in wordsofonebeat

.
Where dips the rock-filled high land
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leaf green isle, and
By its shore long-legged birds wake
The slow-eyed sleek wet rats;
There we've hid our great elf vats,
Full of red fruit;
Our lips drip the juice of our sweet loot.
Come with us, O earth-born child!
To the lakes and to the wild
Hand in hand, with fays now go
For the world's more full of tears than you should have to know.


Where the wave of moon's rays shine out
To gloss dim grey sands with light,
Far past the marsh we line out
And we dance all through the night,
We weave the steps of old,
Hands we touch and looks we hold
Till the moon shall take its flight;
To and fro we leap,
Chase the foam that floats on air
While your world groans with its care
Turns and calls out in its sleep.
Come with us, O earth-born child!
To the lakes and to the wild
Hand in hand, with fays now go
For the world's more full of tears than you should have to know.


Where the pure stream roams and runs down
From the hills that top Glen-Car,
In rush-ringed pools, when sun's down,
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek the sleep of a trout
And hiss soft words in their ears,
Give them fear in their dreams;
And lean so soft out
From ferns that drop their tears
Out o'er the young streams.
Come with us, O earth-born child!
To the lakes and to the wild
Hand in hand, with fays now go
For the world's more full of tears than you should have to know.


And now with our band he goes
The dark eyes wide:
He'll hear no more when it lows,
The calf's call on the warm hill's side
Or the black pot on the hob
That sings peace to his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the black oat chest.
For he comes, the earth-born child,
To the lakes and to the wild
Hand in hand with us he'll go
From a world more full of tears than he will have to know.


by Bill Yeats
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Comments {1}

pedanther

(no post name)

from: pedanther
date: Jul. 21st, 2006 01:27 am (UTC)
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In the glen where grows the rush
In the hills, high in the air
In such a place, we dare not hunt
Lest we meet the Wee Folk there

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