In the last two weeks I've spent a lot of time thinking about pennies. I used them for experiments in my science class, rolled gobs of them, and wrote a poem about them. So, in honor of the lowly penny, I give you Yeats.
Brown Penny
by William Butler Yeats
I whispered, 'I am too young,'
And then, 'I am old enough';
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
'Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair.'
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.
O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.
The round up is being hosted by Jennie at Biblio File. Do stop by and immerse yourself in all the great poetry being shared this week. Before you go, be sure to check out this week's poetry stretch results. Happy poetry Friday, all!
Wonderful poem! I love the lines:
ReplyDeleteI am looped in the loops of her hair.
and
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Such extravagant lines compared to the brown penny commonness. Thanks for sharing!
I now have a new thought whenever I'm digging out those elusive two or three brown pennies from my wallet.
ReplyDeleteMaybe we should post this at all those "take a penny/give a penny" dishes. :)
One cannot begin too soon.
ReplyDeleteOh, this is so ...cute. And disturbing. I am looped in the loops of her hair.
Whatever else he wished for, it's too late... he's a goner.
Tadmack has Yeats today, too. It's in the air. And in the loops of her hair...
ReplyDeleteI heart Yeats. And these lines, which come out of the rhymed poem as an entire thought intact, are made of awesome:
ReplyDeleteThere is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Great poem. The second stanza made me think of e.e. cummings:
ReplyDeletesomewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands