Voices of our sullen North
waylay the splendid lyrics
he breathed on sibilant airwaves.

From him they arose and were gone,
while my harsh Ulster vowels
threaten the placid harmonies
with discordant rendering.

When the quiet fills my head, those
English words from his Irish heart
tumble and dance once again;
old children to a new mother.

James Mills

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mr-yeats-on-the-radio/