A W.B. Yeats Takeoff Poem

This Fine Autumn Day

On Stephen’s Green her beauty shines proud
In a restless fit of old thoughts and dreams
A tender walk through an old mountain stream
Becomes a relic, more than Turin’s shroud

How many walks I made in younger years
Were filled with deep silence and solitude
And many doubts about Love’s fortitude
Drenched my mind in a great many of fears

Yet, now in older meek and humble ways
I search for a touch to come from your hand
Like an ancient jewel entrenched deep in sand
Longing to meet on this fine autumn day.