W.B. Yeats, un anno dopo, di nuovo davanti al mare

Although I can see him still,
The freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
(...)

The living man that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved,
(...)

A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, "Before I am old
I shall have written him one
Poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn