(inspired by William Butler Yeats)by Abigail Droge
How often have I sat here, and dreamt of years before, When I had orchards pale near, and apples on the bough, And blooms of pink and white near, where doves would dive and soar. How much I think of those pink woods now. And if I could but go there, go where the sparrows trill, Where the small brook speaks softly, and flowers drape and trail, And daylight yields a vapor that holds through evening still, I'd lose my cares in the pale fog veil. How often have I sat here and spoken of this land, And smelt the apples ripe there, the flowers light and kind. I'll go there and not keep these newspapers in my hand-- I'll look for what the world can't find.