One hundred years from Yeats, and still I cry,
Reading old notes drawn deep from memory,
A voice hewn sure, too strong to ever die,
A heart worn raw by endless wind and sea.
His view from crow’s nest or from mountain’s peak,
And far below calm seas or riotous land,
Clear eyes that gazed upon the soul’s retreat,
So chronicled in verse by pen in hand.
From darkness mute, to speak with voice of light
There casting moving shadows on blank walls,
A show of angst or scenes of pure delight;
That life in light or shadow may extol.
Broad voice grown richer with the passing years,
To lift up hearts with joy, or drown in tears.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.