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Scott-Yeats |
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I went out to the hazel wood |
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Because a fire was in my head |
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And cut and peeled a hazel wand |
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And hooked a berry to a thread. |
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And when white moths were on the wing |
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And moth-like stars were flickering out |
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I dropped the berry in a stream |
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And caught a little silver trout. |
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When I had laid it on the ground |
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I went to blow the fire a-flame |
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But something rustled on the floor |
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And some one called me by my name. |
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It had become a glimmering girl |
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With apple blossom in her hair |
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Who called me by my name and ran |
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And faded through the brightening air. |
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Though I am old with wandering |
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Through hollow lands and hilly lands |
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I will find out where she has gone |
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And kiss her lips and take her hands. |
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And walk among long dappled grass |
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And pluck till time and times are done |
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The silver apples of the moon |
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The golden apples of the sun |
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The silver apples of the moon |
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The golden apples of the sun. |
