Aedh Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven

Poem By William Butler Yeats

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Comments about Aedh Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven

The computer-generated voice reading this beautiful poem, completely wrecks the sentiments
I first read this poem at school as it was part of a collection to be studied for GCE 'O' level English Literature. It has lived with me since then and at 72 years of age remains to me as the most beautiful love poem. Forget all the deep analyses and academic explanations. What greater gift could anyone wish to give to another but their dreams, with the gentle hope that they would tread softly upon them? It was for my lady, now my wife, and we both cherish it. Peter Richardson 5.07.2016
I first read this poem at school as it was part of a collection to be studied for GCE 'O' level English Literature. It has lived with me since then and at 72 years of age remains to me as the most beautiful love poem. Forget all the deep analyses and academic explanations. What greater gift could anyone wish to togive to another but their dreams, with the gentle hope that they would tread softly upon them? It was for my lady, now my wife, and we both cherish it. Peter Richardson 5.07.2016
I first read this poem at school as it was part of a collection to be studied for GCE 'O' level English Literature. It has lived with me since then and at 72 years of age remains to me as the most beautiful love poem. Forget all the deep analyses and academic explanations. What greater gift could anyone give to another but their dreams, with the gentle hope that they would tread softly upon them? It was for my lady, now my wife, and we both cherish it. Peter Richardson 5.07.2016
Honest, sensitive, truly delightful. Where have genuine poets gone? ...


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