The Road at My Door
W
W. B. Yeats
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An affable Irregular,
A heavily-built Falstaffan man,
Comes cracking jokes of civil war
As though to die by gunshot were
The finest play under the sun.
A brown Lieutenant and his men,
Half dressed in national uniform,
Stand at my door, and I complain
Of the foul weather, hail and rain,
A pear tree broken by the storm.
I count those feathered balls of soot
The moor-hen guides upon the stream,
To silence the envy in my thought;
And turn towards my chamber, caught
In the cold snows of a dream.
Kamu malı: şairin ölümünün üzerinden 70 yıldan fazla geçti.
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