I’m Still Collecting The Silver Apples of the Moon, The Golden Apples of the Sun

I am transported myself to the 20th C because I was thinking about Yeats. It feels like I’ve been wandering for years, doing the same as Aengus–perhaps not following after a glimmering girl, but wandering all the same, collecting those magical apples. Someday, I will have a cellar-full and something to say about them. Too lazy to type this poem out from my collected Yeats, I copied it from this site. Mr. Hardcastle, the owner of the site, spent several years, a long, long time ago in the nineties, typing out some wonderful poems.

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.


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