chestnut trees, dancing, and the cello-y life

      I keep thinking about some Yeats I read a while back.   Labour is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul. Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or […]