WHEN PASSING BY YEATS’ GRAVE

by M.F. Nagel


Cast a cold eye on life
On death,
Horseman pass by.
                              Yeats’ epitaph.

When passing by Yeats’ grave

On the ides of March

Where the seven ancient forests join.

 

I saw

The first patch of brown

Rise

Rise

From its winterself.

 

When passing by

Yeats’ grave

I saw

The four horsemen of the apocalypse.

 

A monument

all

Grey leaf and stick

With which

The summer birds

Will build their nests.

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