W.B. Yeats I went on to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry on a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in the stream And caught a little silver trout. When I had laid it on the floor I went to blow the fire flame, But something rustled on the floor, And someone had called me by name: It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossoms in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air. Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands, And walk along the long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done, The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.