mercredi 31 août 2005

The golden apples of the sun

Though I am Old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

Yeats - The Song of the Wandering Aengus

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