sunset over the West Loop, Chicago
love how golden the light becomes.
Nicked the title from a William B. Yeats poem, apparently, which I half-remembered. I suggest reading it aloud…
via Google Books:
Awaken wanderings of light air
To stir their coverlet and their hair.
And poets found, old writers say;
A yew tree where his body lay;
But a wild apple hid the grass
With its sweet blossom where hers was;
And being in good heart, because
A better time had come again
After the deaths of many men,
And that long fighting at the ford,
They wrote on tablets of thin board,
Made of the apple and the yew,
All the love stories that they knew.
Let rush and bird cry out their fill
Of the harper’s daughter if they will,
VOL I Z BAILE AND AILLINN 337