The Song of Wandering Aengus
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.
Notes
Where Daniel Nyikos’s Potato Soup grounded us in the quiet, domestic nostalgia of a solitary meal connected across screens, W. B. Yeats’s The Song of Wandering Aengus launches us into an incandescent, lifelong pursuit of a mythic, transformative flame. The glittering trout turned glimmering girl captures the elusive nature of desire itself, demonstrating how the true engine of human longing is never the possession of a static object, but the perpetual, romantic chase that transforms mortal transience into an eternal, metaphysical banquet. It crowns August’s theme of Feast in legendary, celestial gold, reminding us that our deepest hunger is satisfied only when we dare to wander through hollow and hilly lands to pluck the silver apples of the moon and the golden apples of the sun. #poetry #wbyeats #feast #august #romantic