I thought of your beauty, and this arrow,
Made out of a wild thought, I in my marrow.
There’s no man may look upon her, no man,
As when newly grown to be a woman,
Tall and noble but with face and bosom
Delicate in colour as apple blossom.
This beauty’s kinder, yet for a reason
I could weep that the old is out of season.
William Butler Yeats In the Seven Woods 1903
Read by Sean Scully at the funeral of his mother.