Dear Yeats
The greatest love endured
tumultuous times of war,
And Ireland was now celebrated
in ways not seen before
Your eyes coloured by ideals
told magic mystical tales-
Of grand Lissadell House,
and epic beauty beyond the pale
I have often dreamt of Ben Bulben,
smudged glossy white with snow
or imagined Glencar's waterfall,
roaring furiously as it flowed.
My eyes have fixed gaze upon
Maud Gonne's handsome face-
And since then I never question
Your passion and its place
for Diarmuid and Grainnes realm
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