The Arrow

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    <strong>The Arrow</strong>

    I THOUGHT of your beauty, and this arrow,

    Made out of a wild thought, is in my marro<bdi></bdi>w.

    Theres no m.an may look upon her, no man,

    As when newly grown <big></big>to be a woman,

    Tall and  with face a<samp>.</samp>nd bosom

    Delicate in colour as apple blossom.

    This beautys kinder, yet for abbr></abbr> reason

    I could weep that the old is out of season.

百度搜索 Selected Poems of W. B. Yeats 天涯 或 Selected Poems of W. B. Yeats 天涯在线书库 即可找到本书最新章节.