She’s in Deep

In the shade of the tilt

Away from the sun, midnight clouds

Shift their ghost herds over the lake.

Yeats grew enamored of the phrase

All is changed, using it in, what,

Three or four of his later poems?

What an understatement, that was,

As well as melodramatic.

All’s always changing. It’s not done,

And it’s not ever utterly

Changed, either. But we’re wearying.

We’ve our own inamorata

Among our familiar phrases

Having to do with change and waves,

Those that we are, or feel, or see,

Or never know about at all

Except by inference, the waves

That shift everything in our sleep.