Autumn is over the long leaves that love us,
And over the mice in the barley sheaves'
Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us,
And yellow the wet wild-strawberry leaves.
The hour of the waning of love has beset us,
And weary and worn are our sad souls now;
Let us part, ere the season of passion forget us,
With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.
William Butler Yeats.
You guys, I can't even handle it. Look at his soulful eyes...
One time I talked to Tim Eriksen (am I bragging? yes.) and he said maybe we are inescapably doomed to like the music we liked as teenagers. "I just love punk," he said, trying to sound a little rueful but actually you could tell he regrets nothing. Is this true of everything, I wonder? Maybe. Oh man I love Yeats as much as or more than I did when I was sixteen.
That is OK by me. My teenage taste was frickenSICKNASTYAWESOME.
Gotta give you another one, it's killing me:
'Your eyes that were once never weary of mine
Are bowed in sorrow under pendulous lide,
Because our love is waning.'
And then she:
'Although our love is waning, let us stand
By the long border of the lake once more,
Together in that hour of gentleness
When the poor tired child, Passion, falls a sleep:
How far away the stars seem, and how far
Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!'
Pensive they paced along the faded leaves,
While slowly he whose hand held hers replied:
'Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.'
The woods were round them, and the yellow leaves
fell like faint meteors in the gloom, and once
A rabbit old and lame limped down the path;
Autumn was over him: and now they stood
On the lone border of the lake once more:
Turning, he saw that she had thrust dead leaves
Gathered in silence, dewy as her eyes,
In bosom and hair.
'Ah, do not mourn,' he said,
'That we are tired, for other lovers await us;
Hate on and love through unrepining hours.
Before us lies eternity; our souls
Are love, and a continual farewell.'