Friday Poetry: W.B. Yeats

Why Yeats? you ask. Well, in addition to the obvious answer, "Why not Yeats?" the answer is that in just a few short hours I'm getting on a plane to Ireland. I'll be gone for a little over a week, so next week there will be no Friday Poetry, and there will be no postings until August 13. Sorry.

And I know this poem's a little dark, but Yeats is. And I think it's pretty.

William Butler Yeats
Those Dancing Days Are Gone
from Words for Music Perhaps

Come, let me sing into your ear;
Those dancing days are gone,
All that silk and satin gear;
Crouch upon a stone,
Wrapping that foul body up
In as foul a rag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
The moon in a silver bag.

Curse as you may I sing it through;
What matter if the knave
That the most could pleasure you,
The children that he gave,
Are somewhere sleeping like a top
Under a marble flag?
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
The moon in a silver bag.

I thought it out this very day,
Noon upon the clock,
A man may put pretence away
Who leans upon a stick,
May sing, and sing until he drop,
Whehter to maid or hag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
The moon in a silver bag.