You, Yeats; (for Ireland now)

When you were a boy with never a crack in your heartm The herring raced in the tides and the girls on the shores Watched as your fingers traced the nets for tares When you were a boy with never a crack in your heart.m When you were a man with thongs of light for limbsm The fox ran strong in the glen and morning's age Sprung in your lines: you, Yeats, were Ireland's rage When you were a man with thongs of light for limbs.m When you were old as songs are sungm The fish were few and unity struck down -- But your words rung deep in our bones and the fox ran on When you were old as old as songs are sung.m For neither beginning of days nor end of lifem Cries out of you now: you live in the waves of your verse With neither b eginning of days nor end of life. . . .m