Yeatsiana – Poem #57

It’s a hut mainly, a solitary, cluttered hut, not of clay and wattles made,
just a hut.
I will arise and go now, and go to my hut, no innisfree this; melancholy this
hut is, but I go there alone, free, but that’s not the point.

No lake water lapping with low sounds, I am alone here, in my free hut,
my cluttered hut,
I ought to have brought a lover here, they say,
but in my lonely hut I am alive, I live.
Not in the bee-loud glade, my hut, but I can breathe here in my melancholy hut.