William Butler Yeats

thumb|right|Man is in love and loves what vanishes, What more is there to say? William Butler Yeats (13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939) was an Irish symbolist poet, dramatist and mystic. He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1923. He compiled the Oxford Book of Modern Verse. See also: The Autobiography of William Butler Yeats Quotes thumb|right|Words are always getting conventionalized to some secondary meaning. It is one of the works of poetry to take the truants in custody and bring them back to their right senses. The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart. Letter to Frederick J. Gregg (undated, Sligo, late summer, 1886) This melancholy London. I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air. Letter to Katharine Tynan (25 August 1888) I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful. One almost expects the people to sing instead of speaking. It is all — the colleges I mean — like an opera. Letter to Katharine Tynan (25 August 1888) I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal, — that is they have ceased to be self-centered, have given up their individuality.... The shallowest people on the ridge of the earth. Letter to Katharine Tynan (30 August 1888) Words are always getting conventionalized to some secondary meaning. It is one of the works of poetry to take the truants in custody and bring them back to their right senses. Poets are the policemen of language; they are always arresting those old reprobates the words. Letter to Ellen O'Leary (3 February 1889) You are still wrecked among heathen dreams. The Wanderings of Oisin (1889) The years like great black oxen tread the world,And God the herdsman goads them on behind,And I am broken by their passing feet. The Countess Cathleen, last lines (1892) We can make our minds so like still water that beings gather about us that they may see, it may be, their own images, and so live for a moment with a clearer, perhaps even with a fiercer life because of our quiet. "Earth, Fire and Water" from The Celtic Twilight (1893) The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth. Letter to the Editor, Dublin Daily Express (27 February 1895) The friends that have it I do wrongWhenever I remake a songShould know what issue is at stake,It is myself that I remake. The Collected Works in Verse and Prose of William Butler Yeats, II, preliminary poem (1908) In dreams begins responsibility. Epigraph to the book Responsibilities (1914); this was later adapted as the title of the story "In Dreams Begin Responsibilities" (1937) by Delmore Schwartz. Do what you will. I do not understand stops. I write my work so completely for the ear that I feel helpless when I have to measure pauses by stops & commas. In letter, W.B. Yeats, Chiswell, Oxford, 13 July 1915 to Bridges We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry. Per Amica Silentia Lunae (1918): Anima Hominis, part v One day when I was twenty-three or twenty-four this sentence seemed to form in my head, without my willing it, much as sentences form when we are half-asleep: "Hammer your thoughts into unity." For days I could think of nothing else, and for years I tested all I did by that sentence. "If I Were Four-and-Twenty," printed in Irish Statesman (23 August 1919) I agree about Shaw — he is haunted by the mystery he flouts. He is an atheist who trembles in the haunted corridor. Letter to George William Russell (1 July 1921) This country will not always be an uncomfortable place for a country gentleman to live in, and it is most important that we should keep in this country a certain leisured class. I am afraid that Labour disagrees with me in that. On this matter I am a crusted Tory. I am of the opinion of the ancient Jewish book which says "there is no wisdom without leisure." Speech, (28 March 1923), Seanad Éireann (Irish Free Senate), on the Damage to Property (Compensation) Bill I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind. Speech (7 June 1923), Seanad Éireann (Irish Free Senate), on the Censorship of Films Bill. The official designs of the Government, especially its designs in connection with postage stamps and coinage, may be described, I think, as the silent ambassadors of national taste. Speech (3 March 1926), Seanad Éireann (Irish Free Senate), on the Coinage Bill. Englishmen are babes in philosophy and so prefer faction-fighting to the labour of its unfamiliar thought. Letter to Olivia Shakespear (24 March 1927) Man can embody truth but he cannot know it. Letter to Lady Elizabeth Pelham (4 January 1939)) The Babylonian starlight broughtA fabulous, formless darkness in;Odour of blood when Christ was slainMade all platonic tolerance vainAnd vain all Doric discipline. Two Songs from a Play, as quoted from The Cycles of History Crossways (1889) thumb|right| Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.In a field by the river my love and I did stand,And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears. Down By The Salley Gardens Where dips the rocky highland Of Sleuth Wood in the lake, There lies a leafy island Where flapping herons wake The drowsy water rats; There we've hid our faery vats, Full of berries And of reddest stolen cherries.Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. The Stolen Child, st. 1 The Song Of The Happy Shepherd thumb|right|Of old the world on dreaming fed;Grey Truth is now her painted toy;Yet still she turns her restless head. Full text online The woods of Arcady are dead,And over is their antique joy;Of old the world on dreaming fed;Grey Truth is now her painted toy;Yet still she turns her restless head. l. 1–5. Words alone are certain good. l. 10. Dream, dream, for this is also sooth. l. 57. The Rose (1893) thumb|right|Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways. thumb|right| Come near, that no more blinded hy man’s fate, I find under the boughs of love and hate, In all poor foolish things that live a day, Eternal beauty wandering on her way. thumb|right|Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways: Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days. thumb|right| How many loved your moments of glad grace,And loved your beauty with love false or true,But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,And loved the sorrows of your changing face. Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways: Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide; The Druid, grey, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed, Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold; To The Rose Upon The Rood Of Time Come near, that no more blinded by man’s fate, I find under the boughs of love and hate, In all poor foolish things that live a day, Eternal beauty wandering on her way. To The Rose Upon The Rood Of Time Come near, come near, come near — Ah, leave me still A little space for the rose-breath to fill! Lest I no more hear common things that crave; The weak worm hiding down in its small cave, The field-mouse running by me in the grass, And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass; But seek alone to hear the strange things said By God to the bright hearts of those long dead, And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know. Come near; I would, before my time to go, Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways: Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days. To The Rose Upon The Rood Of Time I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made: Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; The Lake Isle of Innisfree, st. 1 I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear the lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core. The Lake Isle of Innisfree, st. 3 A pity beyond all tellingIs hid in the heart of love:The folk who are buying and selling,The clouds on their journey above,The cold wet winds ever blowing,And the shadowy hazel groveWhere mouse-grey waters are flowing,Threaten the head that I love. The Pity Of Love; in recent years a statement which might have originated as a misquotation of the first lines of this has been attributed to Oscar Wilde: "To give and not expect return, that is what lies at the heart of love." — no occurrence prior to 1999 has yet been located. The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves,The brilliant moon and all the milky sky,And all that famous harmony of leaves,Had blotted out man’s image and his cry. The Sorrow Of Love, st. 1 When you are old and gray and full of sleep,And nodding by the fire, take down this book,And slowly read, and dream of the soft lookYour eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;How many loved your moments of glad grace,And loved your beauty with love false or true,But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,And loved the sorrows of your changing face.And bending down beside the glowing bars,Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fledAnd paced upon the mountains overheadAnd hid his face amid a crowd of stars. When You Are Old, st. 1–3 The Rose of the World Full text online Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?For these red lips, with all their mournful pride,Mournful that no new wonder may betide,Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam,And Usna's children died. St. 1 We and the labouring world are passing by:Amid men's souls, that waver and give placeLike the pale waters in their wintry race,Under the passing stars, foam of the sky,Lives on this lonely face. St. 2 Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode:Before you were, or any hearts to beat,Weary and kind one lingered by His seat;He made the world to be a grassy roadBefore her wandering feet. St. 3 The Land of Heart's Desire (1894) 244px|thumb|right|Land of Heart's Desire,Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood,But joy is wisdom, time an endless song. The Land of Faery,Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue. Lines 48–52 Life moves out of a red flare of dreamsInto a common light of common hours,Until old age bring the red flare again. I would mould a world of fire and dewWith no one bitter, grave, or over wise,And nothing marred or old to do you wrong. Land of Heart's Desire,Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood,But joy is wisdom, time an endless song. Lines 373–375 The Wind Among the Reeds (1899) thumb|right|I will find out where she has gone,And kiss her lips and take her hands;And walk among long dappled grass,And pluck till time and times are doneThe silver apples of the moon,The golden apples of the sun. thumb|right|I have spread my dreams beneath your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old,The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart,The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould,Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart. The Lover Tells Of The Rose In His Heart, st. 1 And God stands winding His lonely horn,And time and the world are ever in flight;And love is less kind than the grey twilight,And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn. Into The Twilight, st. 4 I will find out where she has gone,And kiss her lips and take her hands;And walk among long dappled grass,And pluck till time and times are doneThe silver apples of the moon,The golden apples of the sun. The Song Of Wandering Aengus Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with the golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams beneath your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,Folk dance like a wave of the sea. The Fiddler Of Dooney, st. 1 In The Seven Woods (1904) thumb|right|Time can but make her beauty over again:Because of that great nobleness of hersThe fire that stirs about her, when she stirs,Burns but more clearly. thumb|right|Everything that's lovely is but a brief, dreamy, kind of delight. thumb|right| O my share of the world, O yellow hair!No one has ever loved but you and I. I have heard the pigeons of the Seven WoodsMake their faint thunder, and the garden bees Hum in the lime-tree flowers; and put awayThe unavailing outcries and the old bitternessThat empty the heart. I have forgot awhileTara uprooted, and new commonnessUpon the throne and crying about the streetsAnd hanging its paper flowers from post to post,Because it is alone of all things happy.I am contented, for I know that QuietWanders laughing and eating her wild heartAmong pigeons and bees, while that Great Archer,Who but awaits His house to shoot, still handsA cloudy quiver over Pairc-na-lee. In The Seven Woods I thought of your beauty, and this arrow,Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow.There's no man may look upon her, no man,As when newly grown to be a woman,Tall and noble but with face and bosomDelicate in colour as apple blossom.This beauty's kinder, yet for a reasonI could weep that the old is out of season. The Arrow One that is ever kind said yesterday:'Your well-belovéd's hair has threads of grey,And little shadows come about her eyes;Time can but make it easier to be wiseThough now it seems impossible, and soAll that you need is patience.'Heart cries, 'No,I have not a crumb of comfort, not a grain.Time can but make her beauty over again:Because of that great nobleness of hersThe fire that stirs about her, when she stirs,Burns but more clearly. O she had not these waysWhen all the wild summer was in her gaze.'O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head,You'd know the folly of being comforted. The Folly Of Being Comforted Never give all the heart, for loveWill hardly seem worth thinking ofTo passionate women if it seemCertain, and they never dreamThat it fades out from kiss to kiss;For everything that's lovely isbut a brief, dreamy, kind of delight.O never give the heart outright,For they, for all smooth lips can say,Have given their hearts up to the play.And who could play it well enoughIf deaf and dumb and blind with love?He that made this knows all the cost,For he gave all his heart and lost. Never Give All The Heart I heard the old, old men say,'Everything alters,And one by one we drop away.'They had hands like claws, and their kneesWere twisted like the old thorn-treesBy the waters.I heard the old, old men say,'All that's beautiful drifts awayLike the waters.' The Old Men Admiring Themselves In The Water O hurry where by water among the treesThe delicate-stepping stag and his lady sigh,When they have but looked upon their images--Would none had ever loved but you and I!Or have you heard that sliding silver-shoedPale silver-proud queen-woman of the sky,When the sun looked out of his golden hood?--O that none ever loved but you and I!O hurry to the ragged wood, for thereI will drive all those lovers out and cry—O my share of the world, O yellow hair!No one has ever loved but you and I. The Ragged Wood Sweetheart, do not love too long:I loved long and long,And grew to be out of fashionLike an old song.All through the years of our youthNeither could have knownTheir own thought from the other'sWe were so much at one.But O, in a minute she changed--O do not love too long,Or you will grow out of fashionLike an old song. O Do Not Love Too Long Adam's Curse thumb|right|A line will take us hours maybe;Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,Our stitching and unstitching has been naught. thumb|right| It’s certain there is no fine thingSince Adam’s fall but needs much laboring. A line will take us hours maybe;Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.Better go down upon your marrow-bonesAnd scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stonesLike an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;For to articulate sweet sounds togetherIs to work harder than all these, and yetBe thought an idler by the noisy setOf bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymenThe martyrs call the world. St. 1 It’s certain there is no fine thingSince Adam’s fall but needs much labouring.There have been lovers who thought love should beSo much compounded of high courtesyThat they would sigh and quote with learned looksPrecedents out of beautiful old books;Yet now it seems an idle trade enough. St. 3 I had a thought for no one's but your ears:That you were beautiful, and that I stroveTo love you in the old high way of love;That it had all seemed happy, and yet we'd grownAs weary-hearted as that hollow moon. St. 5 The Green Helmet and Other Poems (1910) thumb|right| I lift the glass to my mouth,I look at you, and I sigh. thumb|right|Though leaves are many, the root is one. thumb|right| O heart, be at peace, becauseNor knave nor dolt can breakWhat's not for their applause… thumb|right|She, singing upon her road,Half lion, half child, is at peace. thumb|right|Was there ever a dog that praised his fleas? Why should I blame her that she filled my daysWith misery, or that she would of lateHave taught to ignorant men most violent ways,Or hurled the little streets upon the great,Had they but courage equal to desire?What could have made her peaceful with a mindThat nobleness made simple as a fire,With beauty like a tightened bow, a kindThat is not natural in an age like this,Being high and solitary and most stern?Why, what could she have done, being what she is?Was there another Troy for her to burn? No Second Troy The fascination of what's difficultHas dried the sap out of my veins, and rentSpontaneous joy and natural contentOut of my heart. There's something ails our coltThat must, as if it had not holy bloodNor on Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud,Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and joltAs though it dragged road-metal. My curse on playsThat have to be set up in fifty ways,On the day's war with every knave and dolt,Theatre business, management of men.I swear before the dawn comes round againI'll find the stable and pull out the bolt. The Fascination Of What's Difficult Wine comes in at the mouthAnd love comes in at the eye;That's all we shall know for truthBefore we grow old and die.I lift the glass to my mouth,I look at you, and I sigh. A Drinking Song Though leaves are many, the root is one;Through all the lying days of my youthI swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;Now I may wither into the truth. The Coming Of Wisdom With Time I that have not your faith, how shall I know That in the blinding light beyond the grave We’ll find so good a thing as that we have lost? The hourly kindness, the day’s common speech, The habitual content of each with each When neither soul nor body has been crossed. King and No King I swayed upon the gaudy sternThe butt-end of a steering-oar,And saw wherever I could turnA crowd upon a shore.And though I would have hushed the crowd,There was no mother's son but said,'What is the figure in a shroudUpon a gaudy bed?'And after running at the brimCried out upon that thing beneath--It had such dignity of a limb--By the sweet name of Death.Though I'd my finger on my lip, What could I but take up the song?And running crowd and gaudy shipCried out the whole night long,Crying amid the glittering sea,Naming it with the ecstatic breath,Because it had such dignity,By the sweet name of Death. His Dream Some may have blamed you that you took awayThe verses that could move them on the dayWhen, the ears being deafened, the sight of the eyes blindWith lightning, you went from me, and I could findNothing to make a song about but kings,Helmets, and swords, and half-forgotten thingsThat were like memories of you--but nowWe'll out, for the world lives as long ago;And while we're in our laughing, weeping fit,Hurl helmets, crowns, and swords into the pit.But, dear, cling close to me; since you were gone,My barren thoughts have chilled me to the bone. Reconciliation Ah, that Time could touch a formThat could show what Homer's ageBred to be a hero's wage.'Were not all her life but a storm,Would not painters pain a formOf such noble lines,' I said,'Such a delicate high head,All that sternness amid charm,All that sweetness amid strength?Ah, but peace that comes at length,Came when Time had touched her form. Peace O heart, be at peace, becauseNor knave nor dolt can breakWhat's not for their applauseBeing for a woman's sake.Enough if the work has seemed,So did she your strength renew,A dream that a lion had dreamedTill the wilderness cried aloud,A secret between you two,Between the proud and the proud.What, still you would have their praise!But here's a haughtier text,The labyrinth of her daysThat her own strangeness perplexed;And how what her dreaming gaveEarned slander, ingratitude,From self-same dolt and knave;Aye, and worse wrong than these.Yet she, singing upon her road,Half lion, half child, is at peace. Against Unworthy Praise You say, as I have often given tongueIn praise of what another's said or sung,'Twere politic to do the like by these;But was there ever a dog that praised his fleas? To A Poet, Who Would Have Me Praise Certain Bad Poets, Imitators of His and Mine Have you made greatness your companion,Although it be for children that you sigh:These are the clouds about the fallen sun,The majesty that shuts his burning eye. These Are The Clouds O love is the crooked thing,There is nobody wise enoughTo find out all that is in it,For he would be thinking of loveTill the stars had run awayAnd the shadows eaten the moon. Brown Penny Responsibilities (1914) thumb|right|Pardon, old fathers, if you still remainSomewhere in ear-shot for the story’s end. thumb|right|Bred to a harder thingThan Triumph, turn away… thumb|right|Be secret and exult,Because of all things knownThat is most difficult. thumb|right|I made my song a coatCovered with embroideriesOut of old mythologiesFrom heel to throat …Song, let them take it,For there’s more enterpriseIn walking naked. Pardon, old fathers, if you still remainSomewhere in ear-shot for the story’s end. Responsibilities - Introduction While I, that reed-throated whispererWho comes at need, although not now as onceA clear articulation in the air,But inwardly, surmise companionsBeyond the fling of the dull ass’s hoof—Ben Jonson’s phrase—and find when June is comeAt Kyle-na-no under that ancient roofA sterner conscience and a friendlier home,I can forgive even that wrong of wrongs,Those undreamt accidents that have made me—Seeing that Fame has perished that long while,Being but a part of ancient ceremony—Notorious, till all my priceless thingsAre but a post the passing dogs defile. Responsibilities - Closing Was it for this the wild geese spreadThe grey wing upon every tide;For this that all that blood was shed,For this Edward Fitzgerald died,And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,All that delirium of the brave?Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,It’s with O’Leary in the grave. September 1913, st. 3 Now all the truth is out,Be secret and take defeatFrom any brazen throat,For how can you compete,Being honour bred, with oneWho, were it proved he lies,Were neither shamed in his ownNor in his neighbours’ eyes?Bred to a harder thingThan Triumph, turn awayAnd like a laughing stringWhereon mad fingers playAmid a place of stone,Be secret and exult,Because of all things knownThat is most difficult. To A Friend Whose Work Has Come To Nothing Now as at all times I can see in the mind’s eye,In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied onesAppear and disappear in the blue depth of the skyWith all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones,And all their helms of Silver hovering side by side,And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more,Being by Calvary’s turbulence unsatisfied,The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor. The Magi I made my song a coatCovered with embroideriesOut of old mythologiesFrom heel to throat;But the fools caught it,Wore it in the world’s eyesAs though they’d wrought it.Song, let them take it,For there’s more enterpriseIn walking naked. A Coat The Wild Swans at Coole (1919) thumb|right|I would be ignorant as the dawn… thumb|right|I would be — for no knowledge is worth a straw — Ignorant and wanton as the dawn. thumb|right| Unwearied still, lover by lover,They paddle in the cold… thumb|right|I know that I shall meet my fateSomewhere among the clouds above;Those that I fight I do not hate,Those that I guard I do not love… thumb|right| A lonely impulse of delightDrove to this tumult in the clouds;I balanced all, brought all to mind,The years to come seemed waste of breath,A waste of breath the years behindIn balance with this life, this death. thumb|right| All the wild witches, those most noble ladies,For all their broom-sticks and their tears,Their angry tears, are gone. thumb|upright=1|I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day. I would be ignorant as the dawnThat merely stood, rocking the glittering coachAbove the cloudy shoulders of the horses;I would be — for no knowledge is worth a straw —Ignorant and wanton as the dawn. The Dawn The trees are in their autumn beauty,The woodland paths are dry,Under the October twilight the waterMirrors a still sky. The Wild Swans At Coole, st. 1 Unwearied still, lover by lover,They paddle in the coldCompanionable streams or climb the air;Their hearts have not grown old. The Wild Swans At Coole, st. 4 Some burn damp faggots, others may consumeThe entire combustible world in one small roomAs though dried straw, and if we turn aboutThe bare chimney is gone black outBecause the work had finished in that flare.Soldier, scholar, horseman, he,As ’twere all life’s epitome.What made us dream that he could comb grey hair? In Memory Of Major Robert Gregory, st. 11 I had thought, seeing how bitter is that windThat shakes the shutter, to have brought to mindAll those that manhood tried, or childhood lovedOr boyish intellect approved,With some appropriate commentary on each;Until imagination broughtA fitter welcome; but a thoughtOf that late death took all my heart for speech. In Memory Of Major Robert Gregory, st. 12 I know that I shall meet my fateSomewhere among the clouds above;Those that I fight I do not hate,Those that I guard I do not love;My county is Kiltartan Cross,My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,No likely end could bring them lossOr leave them happier than before.Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,A lonely impulse of delightDrove to this tumult in the clouds;I balanced all, brought all to mind,The years to come seemed waste of breath,A waste of breath the years behindIn balance with this life, this death. An Irish Airman Forsees His Death I know what wages beauty gives,How hard a life her servant lives,Yet praise the winters gone:There is not a fool can call me friend,And I may dine at journey’s endWith Landor and with Donne. To A Young Beauty, st. 3 All shuffle there; all cough in ink;All wear the carpet with their shoes;All think what other people think;All know the man their neighbour knows.Lord, what would they sayDid their Catullus walk that way? The Scholars, st. 2 When have I last looked onThe round green eyes and the long wavering bodiesOf the dark leopards of the moon?All the wild witches, those most noble ladies,For all their broom-sticks and their tears,Their angry tears, are gone. Lines Written In Dejection, st. 1 I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day. His Phoenix, refrain Hands, do what you’re bid:Bring the balloon of the mindThat bellies and drags in the windInto its narrow shed. The Balloon Of The Mind We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mindAnd lost the old nonchalance of the hand;Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush,We are but critics, or but half create,Timid, entangled, empty and abashed,Lacking the countenance of our friends. Ego Dominus Tuus, st. 4 Minnaloushe creeps through the grassAlone, important and wise,And lifts to the changing moonHis changing eyes. The Cat And The Moon The Second Coming (1919) 244px|thumb|right|The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. 244px|thumb|right|The darkness drops again but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? First published in The Dial (November 1920) and The Nation (6 November 1920), later publisehed in Michael Robartes and the Dancer (1921) - Online text with some notes on variant editions - online text and notes Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand; A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.The darkness drops again but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? Michael Robartes and the Dancer (1921) Opinion is not worth a rush; In this altar-piece the knight, Who grips his long spear so to push That dragon through the fading light, Loved the lady; and it’s plain The half-dead dragon was her thought, That every morning rose again And dug its claws and shrieked and fought. Could the impossible come to pass She would have time to turn her eyes, Her lover thought, upon the glass And on the instant would grow wise. Michael Robartes and the Dancer They say such different things at school. Michael Robartes and the Dancer Nothing that we love over-muchIs ponderable to our touch. Towards Break of Day, st. 3 Easter, 1916 thumb|right| All changed, changed utterly:A terrible beauty is born. thumb|right|Minute by minute they live: The stone's in the midst of all. thumb|right|Too long a sacrificeCan make a stone of the heart. I have met them at close of dayComing with vivid facesFrom counter or desk among greyEighteenth-century houses.I have passed with a nod of the headOr polite meaningless words,Or have lingered awhile and saidPolite meaningless words. St. 1 All changed, changed utterly:A terrible beauty is born. St. 1 This other man I had dreamedA drunken, vain-glorious lout.He had done most bitter wrongTo some who are near my heart,Yet I number him in the song;He, too, has resigned his partIn the casual comedy;He, too, has been changed in his turn,Transformed utterly:A terrible beauty is born. St. 2 Hearts with one purpose aloneThrough summer and winter, seemEnchanted to a stoneTo trouble the living stream. St. 3 Minute by minute they live: The stone's in the midst of all. St. 3 Too long a sacrificeCan make a stone of the heart. St. 4 O when may it suffice?That is heaven's part, our partTo murmur name upon name. St. 4 I write it out in a verse—MacDonagh and MacBrideAnd Connolly and PearseNow and in time to be,Wherever green is worn,Are changed, changed utterly:A terrible beauty is born. St. 4. A Prayer For My Daughter thumb|right|May she be granted beauty and yet notBeauty to make a stranger’s eye distraught,Or hers before a looking-glass… thumb|right|In courtesy I’d have her chiefly learned;Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earnedBy those that are not entirely beautiful… thumb|right|All hatred driven hence,The soul recovers radical innocenceAnd learns at last that it is self-delighting,Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,And that its own sweet will is Heaven’s will… Imagining in excited reverieThat the future years had come,Dancing to a frenzied drum,Out of the murderous innocence of the sea. St. 2 May she be granted beauty and yet notBeauty to make a stranger’s eye distraught,Or hers before a looking-glass, for such,Being made beautiful overmuch,Consider beauty a sufficient end,Lose natural kindness and maybeThe heart-revealing intimacyThat chooses right, and never find a friend. St. 3 It’s certain that fine women eatA crazy salad with their meatWhereby the Horn of plenty is undone. St. 4 In courtesy I’d have her chiefly learned;Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earnedBy those that are not entirely beautiful;Yet many, that have played the foolFor beauty’s very self, has charm made wise.And many a poor man that has roved,Loved and thought himself beloved,From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes. St. 5 May she become a flourishing hidden treeThat all her thoughts may like the linnet be,And have no business but dispensing roundTheir magnanimities of sound,Nor but in merriment begin a chase,Nor but in merriment a quarrel. St. 6 To be choked with hateMay well be of all evil chances chief.If there’s no hatred in a mindAssault and battery of the windCan never tear the linnet from the leaf. St. 7 An intellectual hatred is the worst,So let her think opinions are accursed.Have I not seen the loveliest woman bornOut of the mouth of plenty’s horn,Because of her opinionated mindBarter that horn and every goodBy quiet natures understoodFor an old bellows full of angry wind? St. 8 All hatred driven hence,The soul recovers radical innocenceAnd learns at last that it is self-delighting,Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,And that its own sweet will is Heaven’s will;She can, though every face should scowlAnd every windy quarter howlOr every bellows burst, be happy still. St. 9 The Tower (1928) thumb|right| Does the imagination dwell the mostUpon a woman won or woman lost? thumb|right|O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,How can we know the dancer from the dance? Never had I moreExcited, passionate, fantasticalImagination, nor an ear and eyeThat more expected the impossible. The Tower, I Does the imagination dwell the mostUpon a woman won or woman lost? The Tower, II, st. 13 Much did I rage when young,Being by the world oppressed,But now with flattering tongueIt speeds the parting guest. Youth And Age Locke sank into a swoon;The Garden died;God took the spinning-jennyOut of his side. Fragments, I Being so caught up,So mastered by the brute blood of the air,Did she put on his knowledge with his powerBefore the indifferent beak could let her drop? Leda and the Swan, st. 3 Labour is blossoming or dancing whereThe 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 the bole?O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,How can we know the dancer from the dance? Among School Children, st. 8 The true faith discovered wasWhen painted panel, statuary.Glass-mosaic, window-glass,Amended what was told awryBy some peasant gospeller. Wisdom Sailing to Byzantium That is no country for old men. The youngIn one another’s arms, birds in the trees—Those dying generations—at their song,The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer longWhatever is begotten, born, and dies.Caught in that sensual music all neglectMonuments of unaging intellect. St. 1 Cf. Nelson Algren's later, "That was no town for the aged or the aging." Consume my heart away; sick with desireAnd fastened to a dying animalIt knows not what it is; and gather meInto the artifice of eternity. St. 3 Once out of nature I shall never takeMy bodily form from any natural thing,But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths makeOf hammered gold and gold enamellingTo keep a drowsy Emperor awake;Or set upon a golden bough to singTo lords and ladies of ByzantiumOf what is past, or passing, or to come. St. 4 Nineteen Hundred And Nineteen thumb|right| Many ingenious lovely things are goneThat seemed sheer miracle to the multitude, protected from the circle of the moonThat pitches common things about. thumb|right| What matter that no cannon had been turnedInto a ploughshare? thumb|right|Come let us mock at the greatThat had such burdens on the mindAnd toiled so hard and lateTo leave some monument behind,Nor thought of the levelling wind. thumb|right|Mock mockers after thatThat would not lift a hand maybeTo help good, wise or greatTo bar that foul storm out, for weTraffic in mockery. Many ingenious lovely things are goneThat seemed sheer miracle to the multitude,protected from the circle of the moonThat pitches common things about. I, st. 1 O what fine thought we had because we thoughtThat the worst rogues and rascals had died out. I, st. 2 All teeth were drawn, all ancient tricks unlearned,And a great army but a showy thing;What matter that no cannon had been turnedInto a ploughshare? I, st. 3 Now days are dragon-ridden, the nightmareRides upon sleep: a drunken soldieryCan leave the mother, murdered at her door,To crawl in her own blood, and go scot-free. I, st. 4 The night can sweat with terror as beforeWe pieced our thoughts into philosophy,And planned to bring the world under a rule,Who are but weasels fighting in a hole. I, st. 4 But is there any comfort to be found?Man is in love and loves what vanishes,What more is there to say? I, st. 5-6 O but we dreamed to mendWhatever mischief seemedTo afflict mankind, but nowThat winds of winter blowLearn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed. III, st. 3 Come let us mock at the greatThat had such burdens on the mindAnd toiled so hard and lateTo leave some monument behind,Nor thought of the levelling wind. V, st. 1 Come let us mock at the wise;With all those calendars whereonThey fixed old aching eyes,They never saw how seasons run,And now but gape at the sun. V, st. 2 Come let us mock at the goodThat fancied goodness might be gay,And sick of solitudeMight proclaim a holiday:Wind shrieked— and where are they? V, st. 3 Mock mockers after thatThat would not lift a hand maybeTo help good, wise or greatTo bar that foul storm out, for weTraffic in mockery. V, st. 4 Two Songs From a Play Odour of blood when Christ was slainMade all platonic tolerance vainAnd vain all Doric discipline. II, st. 1 Everything that man esteemsEndures a moment or a day.Love’s pleasure drives his love away,The painter’s brush consumes his dreams. II, st. 2 Whatever flames upon the nightMan’s own resinous heart has fed. II, st. 2 The Winding Stair and Other Poems (1933) thumb|right| A starlit or a moonlit dome disdainsAll that man is,All mere complexities,The fury and the mire of human veins. thumb|right|Love has pitched his mansion inThe place of excrement;For nothing can be sole or wholeThat has not been rent. thumb|right|We loved each other and were ignorant. Whether they knew or not,Goldsmith and Burke, Swift and the Bishop of CloyneAll hated Whiggery; but what is Whiggery?A levelling, rancorous, rational sort of mindThat never looked out of the eye of a saintOr out of drunkard’s eye. The Seven Sages Only God, my dear,Could love you for yourself aloneAnd not your yellow hair. For Anne Gregory, st. 3 Swift has sailed into his rest;Savage indignation thereCannot lacerate his breast.Imitate him if you dare,World-besotted traveller; heServed human liberty. Swift's Epitaph. The intellect of man is forced to choosePerfection of the life, or of the work,And if it take the second must refuseA heavenly mansion, raging in the dark. The Choice, st. 1 The unpurged images of day recede;The Emperor’s drunken soldiery are abed;Night resonance recedes, night walkers’ songAfter great cathedral gong;A starlit or a moonlit dome disdainsAll that man is,All mere complexities,The fury and the mire of human veins. Byzantium, st. 1 At midnight on the Emperor’s pavement flitFlames that no faggot feeds, nor steel has lit,Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame,Where blood-begotten spirits comeAnd all complexities of fury leave,Dying into a dance,An agony of trance,An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve. Byzantium, st. 4 Somewhere beyond the curtainOf distorting daysLives that lonely thingThat shone before these eyesTargeted, trod like Spring. Quarrel In Old Age, st. 2 ‘Fair and foul are near of kin,And fair needs foul,’ I cried.‘My friends are gone, but that’s a truthNor grave nor bed denied.' Crazy Jane Talks With The Bishop, st. 2 But Love has pitched his mansion inThe place of excrement;For nothing can be sole or wholeThat has not been rent. Crazy Jane Talks With The Bishop, st. 3 What were all the world’s alarmsTo mighty Paris when he foundSleep upon a golden bedThat first dawn in Helen’s arms? Lullaby, st. 1 Speech after long silence; it is right,All other lovers being estranged or dead,Unfriendly lamplight hid under its shade,The curtains drawn upon unfriendly night,That we descant and yet again descantUpon the supreme theme of Art and Song:Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; youngWe loved each other and were ignorant. After Long Silence I gave what other women gaveThat stepped out of their clothes.But when this soul, its body off,Naked to naked goes,He it has found shall find thereinWhat none other knows,And give his own and take his own And rule in his own right; And though it loved in miseryClose and cling so tight, There’s not a bird of day that dare Extinguish that delight. A Last Confession, St. 3 & 4 A Dialogue of Self and Soul] Text online My Soul. Why should the imagination of a manLong past his prime remember things that areEmblematical of love and war?Think of ancestral night that can,If but imagination scorn the earthAnd intellect is wanderingTo this and that and t'other thing,Deliver from the crime of death and birth. I, st. 3 My Soul. Such fullness in that quarter overflowsAnd falls into the basin of the mindThat man is stricken deaf and dumb and blind,For intellect no longer knowsIs from the Ought, or knower from the Known —That is to say, ascends to Heaven;Only the dead can be forgiven;But when I think of that my tongue's a stone. I, st. 4 What matter if I live it all once more?Endure that toil of growing up;The ignominy of boyhood; the distressOf boyhood changing into man;The unfinished man and his painBrought face to face with his own clumsiness;The finished man among his enemies?—How in the name of Heaven can he escapeThat defiling and disfigured shapeThe mirror of malicious eyesCasts upon his eyes until at lastHe thinks that shape must be his shape? II, st. 1 I am content to live it all againAnd yet again, if it be life to pitchInto the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch,A blind man battering blind men;Or into that most fecund ditch of all,The folly that man doesOr must suffer, if he woosA proud woman not kindred of his soul. II, st. 3 I am content to follow to its sourceEvery event in action or in thought;Measure the lot; forgive myself the lot! When such as I cast out remorseSo great a sweetness flows into the breastWe must laugh and we must sing,We are blest by everything,Everything we look upon is blest. II, st. 4 Vacillation thumb|right|No man has ever lived that had enoughOf children’s gratitude or woman’s love. thumb|right|Call those works extravagance of breathThat are not suited for such men as comeProud, open-eyed and laughing to the tomb. All women dote upon an idle manAlthough their children need a rich estate.No man has ever lived that had enoughOf children’s gratitude or woman’s love. III, st. 1 Test every work of intellect or faith,And everything that your own hands have wroughtAnd call those works extravagance of breathThat are not suited for such men as comeProud, open-eyed and laughing to the tomb. III, st. 2 My fiftieth year had come and gone,I sat, a solitary man,In a crowded London shop,An open book and empty cupOn the marble table-top.While on the shop and street I gazedMy body of a sudden blazed;And twenty minutes more or lessIt seemed, so great my happiness,That I was blessed and could bless. IV Things said or done long years ago,Or things I did not do or sayBut thought that I might say or do,Weigh me down, and not a dayBut something is recalled,My conscience or my vanity appalled. V, st. 2 Seek out reality, leave things that seem. VII A Full Moon in March (1935) thumb|right|I pray — for word is outAnd prayer comes round again —That I may seem, though I die old,A foolish, passionate man. God guard me from those thoughts men thinkIn the mind alone;He that sings a lasting songThinks in a marrow-bone. A Prayer For Old Age, st. 1. I pray — for word is outAnd prayer comes round again —That I may seem, though I die old,A foolish, passionate man. A Prayer For Old Age, st. 3. Parnell's Funeral and Other Poems (1935). Supernatural Songs Whence had they come,The hand and lash that beat down frigid Rome?What sacred drama through her body heavedWhen world-transforming Charlemagne was conceived? Supernatural Songs, VIII, Whence Had They Come? Then he struggled with the mind; His proud heart he left behind. Now his wars on God begin; At stroke of midnight God shall win. Supernatural Songs, IX, The Four Ages of Man Last Poems (1936-1939) thumb|right|Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay. thumb|right|My temptation is quiet. thumb|right|Hurrah for revolution and more cannon-shot!A beggar upon horseback lashes a beggar on foot.Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again!The beggars have changed places, but the lash goes on. thumb|right|Think where man's glory most begins and endsAnd say my glory was I had such friends. thumb|right|Because there is safety in derisionI talked about an apparition,I took no trouble to convince,Or seem plausible to a man of sense. All perform their tragic play,There struts Hamlet, there is Lear,That’s Ophelia, that Cordelia. Lapis Lazuli, st. 2 Heaven blazing into the head:Tragedy wrought to its uttermost.Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages,And all the drop-scenes drop at onceUpon a hundred thousand stages,It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce. Lapis Lazuli, st. 2 Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay. Lapis Lazuli, st. 5 If soul may look and body touch,Which is the more blest? The Lady's Second Song, st. 3 My temptation is quiet.Here at life’s endNeither loose imagination,Nor the mill of the mindConsuming its rag and bone,Can make the truth known. An Acre of Grass, st. 2 Grant me an old man’s frenzy,Myself must I remakeTill I am Timon and LearOr that William BlakeWho beat upon the wallTill Truth obeyed his call. An Acre of Grass, st. 3 Hurrah for revolution and more cannon-shot!A beggar upon horseback lashes a beggar on foot.Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again!The beggars have changed places, but the lash goes on. The Great Day You think it horrible that lust and rageShould dance attention upon my old age;They were not such a plague when I was young;What else have I to spur me into song? The Spur You that would judge me, do not judge aloneThis book or that, come to this hallowed placeWhere my friends' portraits hang and look thereon;Ireland's history in their lineaments trace;Think where man's glory most begins and endsAnd say my glory was I had such friends. The Municipal Gallery Revisited, st. 7 Down the mountain wallsFrom where pan’s cavern isIntolerable music falls.Foul goat-head, brutal arm appear,Belly, shoulder, bum,Flash fishlike; nymphs and satyrsCopulate in the foam. News for the Delphic Oracle, st. 3 Like a long-legged fly upon the streamHis mind moves upon silence. Long-Legged Fly, refrain A bloody and a sudden end,Gunshot or a noose,For Death who takes what man would keep,Leaves what man would lose. John Kinsella’s Lament For Mrs. Mary Moore', st. 1 Because there is safety in derisionI talked about an apparition,I took no trouble to convince,Or seem plausible to a man of sense. The Apparitions, st. 1 I have found nothing half so goodAs my long-planned half solitude,Where I can sit up half the nightWith some friend that has the witNot to allow his looks to tellWhen I am unintelligible. The Apparitions, st. 2 thumb|right|Cast a cold eyeOn life, on death.Horseman, pass by! Players and painted stage took all my love,And not those things that they were emblems of. The Circus Animals' Desertion, II, st. 3. Now that my ladder’s gone,I must lie down where all the ladders startIn the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart. The Circus Animals' Desertion, III Irish poets, earn your trade,Sing whatever is well made,Scorn the sort now growing upAll out of shape from toe to top,Their unremembering hearts and headsBase-born products of base beds. Under Ben Bulben, V Under bare Ben Bulben’s headIn Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid. Under Ben Bulben, VI No marble, no conventional phrase;On limestone quarried near the spotBy his command these words are cut:Cast a cold eyeOn life, on death.Horseman, pass by!''' Quotes about Yeats By mourning tongues The death of the poet was kept from his poems.But for him it was his last afternoon as himself, An afternoon of nurses and rumours; The provinces of his body revolted, The squares of his mind were empty, Silence invaded the suburbs. The current of his feeling failed: he became his admirers.Now he is scattered over a hundred cities And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections; To find his happiness in another kind of wood And be punished under a foreign code of conscience. The words of a dead man are modified in the guts of the living. W. H. Auden in "In Memory of W.B. Yeats' (1939) Follow, poet, follow right To the bottom of the night, With your unconstraining voice Still persuade us to rejoice;With the farming of a verse Make a vineyard of the curse, Sing of human unsuccess In a rapture of distress;In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountains start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise. W. H. Auden in "In Memory of W.B. Yeats' (1939) Yeats was an inexhaustible source of delight. I’ve never known anyone so forgetful of little details. Whenever it came time for his lecture in Washington Hall (University of Notre Dame) Washington Hall on the campus, he seized his portfolio and marched over only to find after he arrived on the stage that he had brought the wrong lecture or no lecture at all in an empty portfolio. This was constantly happening. John J. Cavanaugh I knew Yeats. He made a very strong impression. He wasn't an intimate friend, but I met him at Lady Ottoline Morrell's and he talked to me about how he lived very quietly just seeing a few friends and some witches... He was a very, very unexpected personality. Well, perhaps not unexpected. One might have expected it. But a very unusual personality. Because he was, I think, a very great poet... [H]e talked in this chanting, curious, Celtic voice... He read with his great chanting voice and then he beat time, you know. Lord David Cecil, quoted in Tristram Powell, 'A Television Interview', in David Cecil: A Portrait by his Friends (1990), pp. 162-163 An idea of art opposed to the idea of utility, an idea of an audience opposed to the idea of popularity, an idea of the peripheral becoming the central culture – in these three ideas Yeats provided Irish writing with a programme for action. But whatever its connection with Irish nationalism, it was not, finally, a programme of separation from the English tradition. His continued adherence to it led him to define the central Irish attitude as one of self-hatred... The pathology of literary unionism has never been better defined. Seamus Deane, Small World: Ireland, 1798–2018 (2021), p. 138 his poetry is always with me and I know plenty of it off by heart. I often find myself quoting him – my work is full of Yeats ideas and lines which I have absorbed. Éilís Ní Dhuibhne, [www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/i-want-to-document-life-as-it-is-now-as-a-source-for-the-future-1.3237426 interview] (2017) Born into a world in which the doctrine of 'Art for Art's sake' was generally accepted, and living on into one in which art has been asked to be instrumental to social purposes, he held firmly to the right view which is between these, though not in any way a compromise between them, and showed that an artist, by serving his art with entire integrity, is at the same time rendering the greatest service he can to his own nation and to the world. T. S. Eliot, 'Yeats' (1940), On Poetry and Poets (1957), p. 262 There are some poets whose poetry can be considered more or less in isolation, for experience and delight. There are others whose poetry, though giving equally experience and delight, has a larger historical importance. Yeats was one of the latter: he was one of those few whose history is the history of their own time, who are a part of the consciousness of an age which cannot be understood without them. This is a very high position to assign him: but I believe that it is one which is secure. T. S. Eliot, 'Yeats' (1940), On Poetry and Poets (1957), p. 262 When I went to college (from 1959 to 1963), there were no women's studies courses, no anthologies that stressed a female heritage, no public women's movement. Poetry meant Yeats, Lowell, James Dickey. Without even realizing it, I assumed that the voice of the poet had to be male. Erica Jong "Blood and Guts: The Tricky Problem of Being a Woman Writer in the Late Twentieth Century" in The Writer on Her Work edited by Janet Sternburg (2000) I think more of Yeats sometimes when I write than I do of anything else. 1986 interview in Conversations with Grace Paley (1997) I think that I just drew a lot of nourishment from the poets that I then was aware of and able to be aware of, poets like William Blake, like Emily Dickinson, like Whitman, people whose—and then later, somewhat later, Yeats, who taught me in fact that poetry could be political and still be incredibly beautiful. And on and on, because one is always reading, one is always extending one’s range into the world of poetry translated from other languages, poetry from other centuries. All of that has been very important to me. Adrienne Rich Interview with Democracy Now (1997) I was easily entranced by pure sound and still am, no matter what it is saying: and any poet who mixes the poetry of the actual world with the poetry of sound interests and excites me more than I am able to say. In my student years, it was Yeats who seemed to do this better than anyone else. There were lines of Yeats that were to ring in my head for years: "Many times man lives and dies/Between his two eternities,/That of race and that of soul,/And ancient Ireland knew it all..../Did she in touching that lone wing/Recall the years before her mind/Became a bitter, an abstract thing/Her thought some popular enmity:/Blind and leader of the blind/Drinking the foul ditch where they lie?" I could hazard the guess that all the most impassioned, seductive arguments against the artist's involvement in politics can be found in Yeats. It was this dialogue between art and politics that excited me in his work, along with the sound of his language-never his elaborate mythological systems. I know I learned two things from his poetry, and those two things were at war with each other. One was that poetry can root itself in politics. Even if it defends privilege, even if it deplores political rebellion and revolution, it can, may have to, account for itself politically, consciously situate itself amid political conditions, without sacrificing intensity of language. The other, that politics leads to "bitterness" and "abstractness" of mind. makes women shrill and hysterical, and is finally a waste of beauty and talent: "Too long a sacrifice / can make a stone of the heart." There was absolutely nothing in the literary canon I knew to counter the second idea. Elizabeth Barrett Browning's anti-slavery and feminist poetry, H.D.'s anti-war and woman-identified poetry, like the radical-yes, revolutionary-work of Langston Hughes and Muriel Rukeyser, were still buried by the academic literary canon. But the first idea was extremely important to me: a poet-one who was apparently certified-could actually write about political themes, could weave the names of political activists into a poem: "MacDonagh and MacBride/And Connally and Pearce/Now and in time to come/Wherever green is worn/Are changed, changed utterly:/A terrible beauty is born." Adrienne Rich Arts of the Possible (2001) Barriers dissolve, too, when confronted by the Eastern poems: the poems of the sacred books, in Yeats' translation of the Upanishads, or Isherwood's of the Bhagavad-Gita, and such work as E. Powys Mathers' Black Marigolds and Robert Payne's The White Pony, a rich anthology of Chinese poetry. Muriel Rukeyser The Life of Poetry'' (1949) External links Poems of William Butler Yeats Collected Poems at University of Adelaide Selected Poetry of W.B.Yeats 'Yeats' 'Leda and the swan': an images coming of age Yeats at Project Gutenberg Poetry by W.B. Yeats on Bibliomania Alphabetical Listing of Poems by Yeats Manuscript drafts from the National Library of Ireland's Yeats Collection 46768718 Category:Academics from Ireland Category:Mystics Category:Poets from Ireland Category:Playwrights from Ireland Category:Fantasy authors Category:People from Dublin Category:Anthologists from Ireland Category:Autobiographers Category:Irish nationalists Category:Anglicans Category:Occultists Category:1865 births Category:1939 deaths Category:Nobel laureates in Literature Category:Nobel laureates from Ireland Category:Fellows of the Royal Society of Literature Category:Victorian poets Category:Formalist poets