I CRIED when the moon was mutmuring to the birds: <br />'Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will, <br />I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words, <br />For the roads are unending, and there is no place to my mind.' <br />The honey-pale moon lay low on the sleepy hill, <br />And I fell asleep upon lonely Echtge of streams. <br /> <br />No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind; <br />The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams. <br /> <br />I know of the leafy paths that the witches take <br />Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles of wool, <br />And their secret smile, out of the depths of the lake; <br />I know where a dim moon drifts, where the Danaan kind <br />Wind and unwind their dances when the light grows cool <br />On the island lawns, their feet where the pale foam gleams. <br /> <br />No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind; <br />The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams. <br /> <br />I know of the sleepy country, where swans fly round <br />Coupled with golden chains, and sing as they fly. <br />A king and a queen are wandering there, and the sound <br />Has made them so happy and hopeless, so deaf and so blind <br />With wisdom, they wander till all the years have gone by; <br />I know, and the curlew and peewit on Echtge of streams. <br /> <br />No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind; <br />The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.<br /><br />William Butler Yeats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-withering-of-the-boughs/
