THE LAUGHING BONE‎ > ‎WORD‎ > ‎POETRY‎ > ‎

After Byzantium

The heart, once consumed with desire
is thankfully wasting away.
The dying animal is reconciled
to the leash of the eternal thing.

I still search for that golden bough.
I still search for a place to sing.
In a desolate and abandoned Byzantium,
soon, soon, I hear it whispering.

The mind, full of holy fire
is emptied into eternity.
And my memories, like birds on a wire
Have all flown away from me.

I still search for that golden bough.
I still search for a place to sing.
In a desolate and abandoned Byzantium,
soon, soon, I hear it whispering.

And you, in your tattered dress
no longer long to dance with me.
An old man's sad happiness
depends upon such paltry things.

I still search for that golden bough.
I still search for a place to sing.
In a desolate and abandoned Byzantium,
soon, soon, I hear it whispering.



27 March 2017