A Prayer for my Daughter; Quest 2

W. B. Yeats, 1865 - 1939 & Brianna Mazack

Once more the storm is howling, and half hid. Under this cradle-hood and cover lid my child sleeps on. There is no obstacle, but Gregory’s wood and one bare hill.
Where by the haystack- and roof-leveling wind, bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed; And for an hour I have walked and prayed. Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.
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I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour. And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower, and under the arches of the bridge, and scream. In the elms above the flooded stream; Imagining in excited reverie. That the future years had come. Dancing to a frenzied drum, out of the murderous innocence of the sea.
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May she be granted beauty and yet not beauty to make a stranger’s eye distraught, or hers before a looking-glass, for such. Being made beautiful overmuch, consider beauty a sufficient end. Lose natural kindness and maybe. The heart-revealing intimacy. That chooses right, and never find a friend.


Academy of American Poets, 75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038