There are no mists here now that cloak the lake;
Or islands that drift in reflected clouds like Innisfree.
No evenings full of linnet's wings
No glades of bees or purple noons.
How could the poet scribble away?
To the clump, clump clump of althletes on the circular path.
Where the trees have hard edges
Like shapes on a child's cutting board.
There are no far flung hills here
Spread out lonely and lovely in Sligo green
Just thickets and a dense conspiracy of trees
And the smell of the festering lake in between
There's no Sleuth Wood on Lake Maury or promise of glens.
Or islands that glitter like silver foil shaking out to sea
There are no salley gardens where maidens walk with snow white feet.
And cry for those young and foolish years.
In America now we are immune to such love
We'll rationalize it all out in the therapist's chair.
We'll walk on and move on or take a pill
And never take the time to think.
There are no turtles near the Island of Innisfree
To fight for the crumbs with the fish and the geese
Or darker ripples in the lake's depths
Where esturine creatures cast a cold eye on life.
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