Who will seek the mythic now,
As skeptics now accept the shade
Of almond trees where Nana sat,
And starting from the golden bough,
Who will stray where Yeats had strayed,
And who will call his pale moon cat?
And who among the mythic lot
Could correlate the coming times
With all our proud, unyielding truth?
Yet hold in mind what we ought:
That even Yeats’s spiring rhymes
Symbolize a common youth.