The Arrow

I thought of your beauty, and this arrow,

Made out of a wild thought, I in my marrow.

There’s no man may look upon her, no man,

As when newly grown to be a woman,

Tall and noble but with face and bosom

Delicate in colour as apple blossom.

This beauty’s kinder, yet for a reason

I could weep that the old is out of season.

William Butler Yeats In the Seven Woods  1903

Read by Sean Scully at the funeral of his mother.