Last week I picked up a copy of Under the Moon, a book of unpublished early poetry of William Butler Yeats. It contains thirty-eight poems written between the poet's late teens and early twenties, and was published under the title Yeats had once planned to give his first volume of collected poems. Here is one poem I can't seem to shake.
Wherever in the wastesThe round up this week is being hosted by Gina at AmoXcalli. Do stop by and read all the great poetry that's been offered up. Before you go, be sure to check out this week's poetry stretch results. Happy poetry Friday, all!
by William Butler Yeats
Wherever in the wastes of wrinkling sand
Worn by the fan of ever flaming time
Longing for human converse, we have pitched
A camp for musing in some seldom spot
Of not unkindly nurture, and let loose
To roam and ponder those sad dromedaries
Our dreams, the Master of the pilgrimage
Cries, "Nay -- the caravan goes ever on,
The goal lies further than the morning star."