A Change In The Weather…

Not so often, not so frequent. I think I am running out of juice, or need a bit of a break. Turfing has been going for over 2 years, and it has been pretty much an everyday event. I love working with it, don’t get me wrong… It is just that the format has to be simplified down, and I need to step back and rethink it all a bit.. There will still be poetry and the like; links, articles, art, but just not as frequently or so much.
Thanks for the support over the last 2 years…

A Bit Of William Butler Yeats ….
The Harp of Aengus
Edain came out of Midhir’s hill, and lay

Beside young Aengus in his tower of glass,

Where time is drowned in odour-laden winds

And Druid moons, and murmuring of boughs,

And sleepy boughs, and boughs where apples made

Of opal and ruhy and pale chrysolite

Awake unsleeping fires; and wove seven strings,

Sweet with all music, out of his long hair,

Because her hands had been made wild by love.

When Midhir’s wife had changed her to a fly,

He made a harp with Druid apple-wood

That she among her winds might know he wept;

And from that hour he has watched over none

But faithful lovers.

Towards Break Of Day
Was it the double of my dream

The woman that by me lay

Dreamed, or did we halve a dream

Under the first cold gleam of day?
I thought: “There is a waterfall

Upon Ben Bulben side

That all my childhood counted dear;

Were I to travel far and wide

I could not find a thing so dear.’

My memories had magnified

So many times childish delight.
I would have touched it like a child

But knew my finger could but have touched

Cold stone and water. I grew wild.

Even accusing Heaven because

It had set down among its laws:

Nothing that we love over-much

Is ponderable to our touch.
I dreamed towards break of day,

The cold blown spray in my nostril.

But she that beside me lay

Had watched in bitterer sleep

The marvellous stag of Arthur,

That lofty white stag, leap

From mountain steep to steep.

and…. ending with an old favourite which we ended the first entry with:
The Song of Wandering Aengus
I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire aflame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And some one called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.
~ Mike Crowley and Gwyllm ~

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