Moment in Time

                                                                       Portrait by J.B.Yeats
Image: A youthful W.B Yeats drawn by his father JB
Sourced through Wikimedia Commons (here)

The thoughts drifted I had my share
To times long past to times laid bare
I had the wisdom I had her praised
Her image so clear I was amazed

And yet for all that I had felt so right
Believing every word that I had said,
I praised her that made her eyes grow bright
Basking in that special moment's limelight

We sat silent she'd not said a word,

Were it not for the ridiculous crowds that meet
A heart that laughter had made so sweet
Would not know until we walked the very street
Whereon a thing once walked, for one to greet

We walked silently without a word

Suspicious darting eyes of sorts
Friendly folks but we let them be
Slowly and surely without a nod
We passed them by in all dignity

Hand in hand in a world of our own
Two souls but with one heart all alone

Note: I had based the above from the poem below,

A Memory Of Youth
(by William Butler Yeats)

THE moments passed as at a play;
I had the wisdom love brings forth;
I had my share of mother-wit,
And yet for all that I could say,
And though I had her praise for it,
A cloud blown from the cut-throat North
Suddenly hid Love's moon away.
Believing every word I said,
I praised her body and her mind
Till pride had made her eyes grow bright,
And pleasure made her cheeks grow red,
And vanity her footfall light,
Yet we, for all that praise, could find
Nothing but darkness overhead.
We sat as silent as a stone,
We knew, though she'd not said a word,
That even the best of love must die,
And had been savagely undone
Were it not that Love upon the cry
Of a most ridiculous little bird
Tore from the clouds his marvellous moon.
ALTHOUGH crowds gathered once if she but showed her face,
And even old men's eyes grew dim, this hand alone,
Like some last courtier at a gypsy camping-place
Babbling of fallen majesty, records what's gone.
These lineaments, a heart that laughter has made sweet,
These, these remain, but I record what-s gone. A crowd
Will gather, and not know it walks the very street
Whereon a thing once walked that seemed a burning cloud

Written for Anna at d' Verse with Meeting the Bar - Erasure poetry