A sudden blast of dusty wind and after
Thunder of feet, tumult of images,
Their purpose in the labyrinth of the wind
...
~ W. B. Yeats, Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen
To some it's paint, t' some, gorges
This alluring labyrinth,
So fatal your arts stricken
for finding worthwhile links.
Sometimes 'ts easy, sometimes hard,
This intriguing labyrinth.
By grueling curses out-far
Loses we the doomed precinct.
A labyrinth of the wind,
They perish after they sing
At the wholesome parts of grain,
Alive before the refrain.
Their wings of solid paper,
Torch from 'ts tactile quiddity
Your hearts in written cinders,
Applied our lived to fly free.