To The Ghost of Yeats

In a kind of expectance, as
The lights are flipped on
A shadow-pale Irishman
Standing there, lone
Tho' never appearing, it
To me at least matters
Those lights glowing-grounding,
And what happens after

Or Irishmen, Englishmen
Germanic affects
That space between light
And in which, can reflect
Well if he were there, then
For a moment in Time
Perhaps some Irish-born dreaming
In a blink will be Mine

And within Auden's tribute
There--that brief indecision
Between the room lighted-dark
And a quick Celtic vision
We learn--not be doing
But after that learning
Which took flight for swans;
Set Blake's "tyger" burning...

A moment of daftness
And that is within scope
For a half-gathered image
With which to promote
The heart of a mourner
And Ireland's Mad
But in the case of us here:
It is all we may have

Wander thru' dark and
The hallways and rooms
Afraid to turn lights on
For what they might prove
Learn thru' it still!
O, never believe
That doing in first-times
May create some kind of Lead

And what of our ghost-stories
Debunked by who may
Realize that others
Must first light the way
I believe in, at least, the need
For a Guide
Standing in waiting
There just inside

What better legends
Then our Irish-born Muse
His swans and his children
And the tragedy used
Ah, angry-deep Island
To birth this new sprite
Waiting in instants
Before there is light

And the Irish ghosts fading
Thru' a sleep-riddled glance
If you blink in assurance
Then we all miss that chance
To...knowing is simply
The proof in the air
That before the room lighted
Some Irishman was there