The Philosophy Yeats haunts the musty halls. An ancient serpent crawls Around the borders of a book That holds a golden sea Of the old Philosophy. The elders sit and speak In solemn tones Of the Tetragrammaton and Greek Gods who love the nones Of unrecoverable days. Why do the elders stay And read the prayers again? Each night they haunt the halls When evening falls And leave a little after ten. If my limbs are just a casket And a soul cries out in me, Like a Moses in a basket, Why should I not be A Theosophist too? For then When evening comes again I’ll haunt the twilight halls (Where the serpent crawls) And pluck the apples from a tree That grows beyond a golden sea.
Posted on: Fri, 25 Jul 2014 15:58:18 +0000
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