In the Society of Dead Poets

Good night, Sweet William
May flights of Princes sing thee
To thy rest.
There on the barge to Avilion
Sailing over the horizon’s crest
The children of the summers end
Gather in the dampened grass
Where the quality of mercy, like peace
Comes strained through the dust of stars.
Tilters at windmills all. Yeats said it best:
A terrible beauty is born with those who go
Where midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow.

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s