Poems Of Yeats
There's a stand of woods to which I'm drawn
hand on the bark to be sure.
And tinctures right earthy
now real, now elusive, grow heady
among spires all rooted to the core.
And you want your love to know your love?
Stand here but more than enough.
And swear sweet this love new made
of the grove's inspired clay,
your longings conveyed by the doves.