Another attempt at a Yeats-inspired sonnet

[RiverNotch]

1453


And if the father of my image knew
that even in his Teiresian age
he should produce a son, would he have moved
to this vast city gold and purple built
for tattered coats on sticks? Where we hot youths
suffer, removed from liberty and pride
under virtue's banner, having to climb
the golden shower tree or trumpet vine
for a love deprived of the blood-red warmth of wine
and mixed with a crazy salad: a muse's dance
turned touchless, tasteless, by allegory.
Offer me no Cathleen ni Houlihan
nor lusty dancer of the Sheban court,
I'd rather die than live an immigrant!

1453


And if the father of my flesh and image knew
that even in his Teiresian age
he should produce a son, would he have moved
to this vast city gold and purple built
for tattered coats on sticks? Where we hot youths
suffer, removed from liberty and pride
under virtue's banner, having to climb
the golden shower tree or trumpet vine
for love deprived of sweets and blood-red wine
and mixed with a crazy salad: a muse's dance
turned touchless, tasteless, by allegory.
Offer me no Cathleen ni Houlihan
nor lusty dancer of the Sheban court,
I'd rather die than live an immigrant!

1453


And if the father of my flesh and image knew
that even in his Teiresian age
he should produce a son, would he have moved
to this vast city gold and purple made
for tattered coats on sticks? Where all the young
suffer, removed from liberty and pride
according to virtue's banner, having to climb
the golden shower tree or trumpet vine
for a love deprived of sweets and blood-red wine
and mixed with a crazy salad: a muse's dance
turned touchless, tasteless, by allegory.
Offer me no Cathleen ni Houlihan
nor lusty dancer of the Sheban court,
I'd rather die than live an immigrant!

1453


And if the father of my flesh and image knew
that even in his old Teiresian age
he should beget a son, would he have moved
to this vast city gold and purple made
for tattered coats on sticks? Where all the young
suffer, removed from liberty and pride
according to virtue's banner, having to climb
the golden shower tree or trumpet vine
for a love deprived of the blood-red warmth of wine
and mixed with a crazy salad: a muse's dance
turned touchless, tasteless, by allegory.
Offer me no Cathleen ni Houlihan
nor lusty dancer of the Sheban court,
I'd rather die than live an immigrant!