Reading Yeats’ “Robert Gregory”

Two logs to make a fire burn,
one real, one fake,
for we have learned
that’s all an evening fire takes.

I sit and contemplate my fate,
prepare to read a bit of Yeats
but he soon robs my throat of words
and makes the world seem more absurd.

With sharp intake of startled breath
that presses down upon my lungs
I read of an untimely death,
a tale of one who died too young.

Let this be said, let this be done–
that I should die before my sons.
Let me to my grave first be called
Let them grow older, grey or bald.


Leave a Reply

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

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

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ 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 )


Connecting to %s