Far away there is a town, where I was born and raised.
And it is there I'd be found for almost all of my days.
Through the air drifts the sounds of laughter and peace,
Of mirth being wrought from human decency.
But it is there I am not, and here I shall be.
In this wood of pine and leaves where the fireflies flit.
Where I stood for an eternity, afraid to lie or sit.
There you stood forever with me until you eloped,
And I had all your memories kept where they'll never be shown.
Where you and I should have slept a long time ago.
Far away the bell does ring, a companion in the night.
In this dell is nothing save the languishing starlight.
In this dell I am waiting, for a friend or a foe,
Hence I feel no guilt and cry no wasted woe.
In this hell I have built, I see no rays of hope.
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Comments about this poem (Help by Dillon McKenna )
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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