William Butler Yeats

THE MOMENTS passed as at a play,

I had the wisdom love can bring,

I had my share of mother wit;

And yet for all that I could say,

And though I had her praise for it,

And she seemed happy as a king,

Love’s moon was withering away.

Believing every word I said

I praised her body and her mind,

Till pride had made her eyes grow bright,

And pleasure made her cheeks grow red,

And vanity her footfall light;

Yet we, for all that praise, could find

Nothing but darkness overhead.

I sat as silent as a stone

And knew, though she’d not said a word,

That even the best of love must die,

And had been savagely undone

Were it not that love, upon the cry

Of a most ridiculous little bird,

Threw up in the air his marvellous moon.