Life lived more beautifully.
I can read poetry. I can listen to poetry.
But today I sat in W. B. Yeats home in Ireland, while an Irishman recited one of Yeats works.
I heard it spoken grandly and proudly in a tone that it would have been written in.
And wasn’t it better than the tone and accent of a tongue not skilled with his words and native sound.
So I sat in the window of Mr. Yeats’ dining room and heard the river flow. I looked out to the view his eyes would have seen. And I felt what it was, that moved him to pick this place.
So I wrote:
And who couldn’t
To the sound of the river
The smell of the peat
The trill of the bird song
Would have to be without
Heart or soul.
It’s not Yeats. But it was written where he thought. Where he wrote. And where he loved to be. It was enough for me to be where he wrote the words the world respects and adores.