He hears the Cry of the Sedge
W.B. Yeats
I wander by the edge
Of this desolate lake
Where wind cries in the sedge:
Until the axle break
That keeps the stars in their round,
And hands hurl in the deep
The banners of East and West
And the girdle of light is unbound,
Your breast will not lie by the breast
of your beloved in sleep.
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C'est un peu triste, je sais... mais ça me trotte dans la tête depuis que je l'ai lu ce matin (dans Selected Poems de W.B. Yeats, Ed. Faber & Faber), alors je le mets ici.
