W. B. Yeats, 1865 - 1939

I went out to the hazel wood,   

Because a fire was in my head,   

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,   

And hooked a berry to a thread;   

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,   

I dropped the berry in a stream   

And caught a little silver trout.   

When I had laid it on the floor   

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,   

And someone called me by my name:   

It had become a glimmering girl   

With apple blossom in her hair   

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.   

Though I am old with wandering   

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,   

I will find out where she has gone,   

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,   

And pluck till time and times are done,   

The silver apples of the moon,   

The golden apples of the sun.