Natalie and a few others have gotten me
reading Yeats. I've always liked some of the best-known poems of his, such as
href="http://www.geocities.com/Athens/5379/TheSecondComing.html">The Second
Coming and
href="http://www.geocities.com/Athens/5379/WhenYouAreOld.html">When You Are
Old, but the depth of his bench, so to speak, is what's really astonishing.
And of course I've had a weakness for Celtic mythology for most of my life, so I'm
predisposed to like his work.
I may never write any verse again,
except possibly for those rare moments when Polyhymnia starts banging on the
inside of my skull, desperate to be let out. What's the point, if you don't have
that wild magic in it?