blogs: From Beneath the Ash, She Rose 

The Arrow by William Butler Yeats I THOUGHT of your beauty, and this arrow, Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow. There's no man may look upon her, no man, As when newly grown to be a woman, Tall and noble but with face and bosom Delicate in colour as apple blossom. This beauty's kinder, yet for a reason I could weep that the old is out of season.

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Irish Giant   mon sep 21 2009 at 11:27 am         ·  As gory as this is, the true meaning is found! good to see true artists expressing themselves these days!!! Irish Giant