William Butler Yeats

Here at right of the entrance this bronze head, Human, superhuman, a bird's round eye, Everything else withered and mummy-dead.

I Made my song a coat Covered with embroideries Out of old mythologies

The Danann children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold, And clap their hands together, and half close their eyes, For they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies,

That crazed girl improvising her music. Her poetry, dancing upon the shore, Her soul in division from itself

Others because you did not keep That deep-sworn vow have been friends of mine; Yet always when I look death in the face,

(My Soul) I summon to the winding ancient stair; Set all your mind upon the steep ascent, Upon the broken, crumbling battlement,

I Dreamed that one had died in a strange place Near no accustomed hand, And they had nailed the boards above her face,

Wine comes in at the mouth And love comes in at the eye; That's all we shall know for truth

Come swish around, my pretty punk, And keep me dancing still That I may stay a sober man

We who are old, old and gay, O so old! Thousands of years, thousands of years,

I admit the briar Entangled in my hair Did not injure me;

Sickness brought me this Thought, in that scale of his: Why should I be dismayed

What lively lad most pleasured me Of all that with me lay? I answer that I gave my soul

I I(First Love) Through nurtured like the sailing moon

Though nurtured like the sailing moon In beauty's murderous brood, She walked awhile and blushed awhile

Endure what life God gives and ask no longer span; Cease to remember the delights of youth, travel-wearied aged man; Delight becomes death-longing if all longing else be vain.

We should be hidden from their eyes, Being but holy shows And bodies broken like a thorn

O bid me mount and sail up there Amid the cloudy wrack, For peg and Meg and Paris' love

Like the moon her kindness is, If kindness I may call What has no comprehension in't,

We sat under an old thorn-tree And talked away the night, Told all that had been said or done

I have pointed out the yelling pack, The hare leap to the wood, And when I pass a compliment

A crazy man that found a cup, When all but dead of thirst, Hardly dared to wet his mouth

Laughter not time destroyed my voice And put that crack in it, And when the moon's pot-bellied

A mermaid found a swimming lad, Picked him for her own, Pressed her body to his body,

I have old women's secrets now That had those of the young; Madge tells me what I dared not think

For one throb of the artery, While on that old grey stone I Sat Under the old wind-broken tree,

The moments passed as at a play; I had the wisdom love brings forth; I had my share of mother-wit,

On thrones from China to Peru All sorts of kings have sat That men and women of all sorts

What woman hugs her infant there? Another star has shot an ear. What made the drapery glisten so?

All the stream that's roaring by Came out of a needle's eye; Things unborn, things that are gone,

I Bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams, White woman that passion has worn

Once more the storm is howling, and half hid Under this cradle-hood and coverlid My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle

Bid a strong ghost stand at the head That my Michael may sleep sound, Nor cry, nor turn in the bed

God guard me from those thoughts men think In the mind alone; He that sings a lasting song

God grant a blessing on this tower and cottage And on my heirs, if all remain unspoiled, No table or chair or stool not simple enough

I Thought no more was needed Youth to prolong Than dumb-bell and foil

My mother dandled me and sang, 'How young it is, how young!' And made a golden cradle

Whence did all that fury come? From empty tomb or Virgin womb? Saint Joseph thought the world would melt

She might, so noble from head To great shapely knees, The long flowing line,

If any man drew near When I was young, I thought, 'He holds her dear,'

I FATHER AND CHILD She hears me strike the board and say

We sat together at one summer's end, That beautiful mild woman, your close friend, And you and I, and talked of poetry.

Fasten your hair with a golden pin, And bind up every wandering tress; I bade my heart build these poor rhymes:

I Wander by the edge Of this desolate lake Where wind cries in the sedge

Pale brows, still hands and dim hair, I had a beautiful friend And dreamed that the old despair

The powers whose name and shape no living creature knows Have pulled the Immortal Rose; And though the Seven Lights bowed in their dance and wept,

I dreamed that I stood in a valley, and amid sighs, For happy lovers passed two by two where I stood; And I dreamed my lost love came stealthily out of the wood

O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes The poets labouring all their days To build a perfect beauty in rhyme

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,

Half close your eyelids, loosen your hair, And dream about the great and their pride; They have spoken against you everywhere,

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Were you but lying cold and dead, And lights were paling out of the West, You would come hither, and bend your head,

Speech after long silence; it is right, All other lovers being estranged or dead, Unfriendly lamplight hid under its shade,

O Heart, be at peace, because Nor knave nor dolt can break What's not for their applause,

i(Epilogue to "A Vision') Midnight has come, and the great Christ Church Bell And may a lesser bell sound through the room;

All things can tempt me from this craft of verse: One time it was a woman's face, or worse, The seeming needs of my fool-driven land;

Saddle and ride, I heard a man say, Out of Ben Bulben and Knocknarea, i(What says the Clock in the Great Clock Tower?)

I walk through the long schoolroom questioning; A kind old nun in a white hood replies; The children learn to cipher and to sing,

Picture and book remain, An acre of green grass For air and exercise,

Being out of heart with government I took a broken root to fling Where the proud, wayward squirrel went,

(He.) Never until this night have I been stirred. The elaborate starlight throws a reflection On the dark stream,

I know that I shall meet my fate Somewhere among the clouds above: Those that I fight I do not hate,

A i(little Indian temple) in i(the Golden Age.) Around it i(a garden;) i(around that the forest. Anashuya, the young priestess, kneelinq) i(within the temple.)

This great purple butterfly, In the prison of my hands, Has a learning in his eye

I call on those that call me son, Grandson, or great-grandson, On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts,

The heron-billed pale cattle-birds That feed on some foul parasite Of the Moroccan flocks and herds

There where the course is, Delight makes all of the one mind, The riders upon the galloping horses,

Dear Craoibhin Aoibhin, look into our case. When we are high and airy hundreds say That if we hold that flight they'll leave the place,

ARGUMENT. i(Baile and Aillinn were lovers, but Aengus, the) i(Master of Love, wishing them to he happy in his own land) i(among the dead, told to each a story of the other's death, so)

Beautiful lofty things: O'Leary's noble head; My father upon the Abbey stage, before him a raging crowd: "This Land of Saints,' and then as the applause died out,

If I make the lashes dark And the eyes more bright And the lips more scarlet,

'Time to put off the world and go somewhere And find my health again in the sea air,' Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,

Blessed be this place, More blessed still this tower; A bloody, arrogant power

Although you hide in the ebb and flow Of the pale tide when the moon has set, The people of coming days will know

There is grey in your hair. Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath When you are passing;

I Whispered, "I am too young," And then, "I am old enough"; Wherefore I threw a penny

The unpurged images of day recede; The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed; Night resonance recedes, night walkers' song

The lot of love is chosen. I learnt that much Struggling for an image on the track Of the whirling Zodiac.

Here is fresh matter, poet, Matter for old age meet; Might of the Church and the State,

While I, from that reed-throated whisperer Who comes at need, although not now as once A clear articulation in the air

The Colonel went out sailing, He spoke with Turk and Jew, With Christian and with Infidel,

(Chorus.) Come praise Colonus' horses, and come praise The wine-dark of the wood's intricacies, The nightingale that deafens daylight there,

Come gather round me, Parnellites, And praise our chosen man; Stand upright on your legs awhile,

If Jupiter and Saturn meet, What a cop of mummy wheat! The sword's a cross; thereon He died:

O but there is wisdom In what the sages said; But stretch that body for a while

I meditate upon a swallow's flight, Upon a aged woman and her house, A sycamore and lime-tree lost in night

I meditate upon a swallow's flight, Upon a aged woman and her house, A sycamore and lime-tree lost in night

I know, although when looks meet I tremble to the bone, The more I leave the door unlatched

Bring me to the blasted oak That I, midnight upon the stroke, (All find safety in the tomb.)

I found that ivory image there Dancing with her chosen youth, But when he wound her coal-black hair

That lover of a night Came when he would, Went in the dawning light

'Love is all Unsatisfied That cannot take the whole

I am tired of cursing the Bishop, (Said Crazy Jane) Nine books or nine hats

I care not what the sailors say: All those dreadful thunder-stones, All that storm that blots the day

I met the Bishop on the road And much said he and I. 'Those breasts are flat and fallen now,

A man that had six mortal wounds, a man Violent and famous, strode among the dead; Eyes stared out of the branches and were gone.

A man came slowly from the setting sun, To Emer, raddling raiment in her dun, And said, "I am that swineherd whom you bid

Nor dread nor hope attend A dying animal; A man awaits his end

For certain minutes at the least That crafty demon and that loud beast That plague me day and night

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.

I have met them at close of day Coming with vivid faces From counter or desk among grey

Hic. On the grey sand beside the shallow stream Under your old wind-beaten tower, where still A lamp burns on beside the open book

"Your eyes that once were never weary of mine Are bowed in sotrow under pendulous lids, Because our love is waning."

Although crowds gathered once if she but showed her face, And even old men's eyes grew dim, this hand alone, Like some last courtier at a gypsy camping place,

She hears me strike the board and say That she is under ban Of all good men and women,

(Fergus.) This whole day have I followed in the rocks, And you have changed and flowed from shape to shape,

"Never shall a young man, Thrown into despair By those great honey-coloured

I Locke sank into a swoon; The Garden died;

Now must I these three praise, Three women that have wrought What joy is in my days;

Parnell's Funeral Under the Great Comedian's tomb the crowd. A bundle of tempestuous cloud is blown

Overcome -- O bitter sweetness, Inhabitant of the soft cheek of a girl -- The rich man and his affairs,

I went out alone To sing a song or two, My fancy on a man,

What they undertook to do They brought to pass; All things hang like a drop of dew

O Where is our Mother of Peace Nodding her purple hood? For the winds that awakened the stars

O, Curlew, cry no more in the air, Or only to the waters in the West; Because your crying brings to my mind

O, Colleens, kneeling by your altar rails long hence, When songs I wove for my beloved hide the prayer, And smoke from this dead heart drifts through the violet air

As the moon sidles up Must she sidle up, As trips the scared moon

I hear the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake, Their hoofs heavy with tumult, their eyes glimmering white;

Fasten your hair with a golden pin, And bind up every wandering tress; I bade my heart build these poor rhymes:

I wander by the edge Of this desolate lake Where wind cries in the sedge:

Do you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns? I have been changed to a hound with one red ear; I have been in the Path of Stones and the Wood of Thorns,

When my arms wrap you round I press My heart upon the loveliness That has long faded from the world;

O Curlew, cry no more in the air, Or only to the water in the West; Because your crying brings to my mind

I dreamed that I stood in a valley, and amid sighs, For happy lovers passed two by two where I stood; And I dreamed my lost love came stealthily out of the

O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes, The poets labouring all their days To build a perfect beauty in rhyme

I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young And weep because I know all things now: I have been a hazel-tree, and they hung

Half close your eyelids, loosen your hair, And dream about the great and their pride; They have spoken against you everywhere,

Half close your eyelids, loosen your hair, And dream about the great and their pride; They have spoken against you everywhere,

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Were you but lying cold and dead, And lights were paling out of the West, You would come hither, and bend your head,

She is foremost of those that I would hear praised. I have gone about the house, gone up and down As a man does who has published a new book

Processions that lack high stilts have nothing that catches the eye. What if my great-granddad had a pair that were

I Swayed upon the gaudy stern The butt end of a steering oar, And everywhere that I could turn

There is a queen in China, or maybe it's in Spain, And birthdays and holidays such praises can be heard Of her unblemished lineaments, a whiteness with no stain,

Because we love bare hills and stunted trees And were the last to choose the settled ground, Its boredom of the desk or of the spade, because

A most astonishing thing -- Seventy years have I lived; (Hurrah for the flowers of Spring,

Five-and-twenty years have gone Since old William Pollexfen Laid his strong bones down in death

I Now that we're almost settled in our house I'll name the friends that cannot sup with us

A man I praise that once in Tara's Hals Said to the woman on his knees, "Lie still. My hundredth year is at an end. I think

I have heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods Make their faint thunder, and the garden bees Hum in the lime-tree flowers; and put away

Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn, Come clear of the nets of wrong and right; Laugh heart again in the gray twilight,

Pardon, old fathers, if you still remain Somewhere in ear-shot for the story's end, Old Dublin merchant 'free of ten and four'

A Bloody and a sudden end, Gunshot or a noose, For Death who takes what man would keep,

'Would it were anything but merely voice!' The No King cried who after that was King, Because he had not heard of anything

I have heard that hysterical women say They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow. Of poets that are always gay,

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,

When have I last looked on The round green eyes and the long wavering bodies Of the dark leopards of the moon?

That civilisation may not sink, Its great battle lost, Quiet the dog, tether the pony

Where has Maid Quiet gone to, Nodding her russet hood? The winds that awakened the stars

What's riches to him That has made a great peacock With the pride of his eye?

I i(Ancestral Houses) Surely among a rich man s flowering lawns,

One had a lovely face, And two or three had charm, But charm and face were in vain

I am worn out with dreams; A weather-worn, marble triton Among the streams;

Civilisation is hooped together, brought Under a mle, under the semblance of peace By manifold illusion; but man's life is thought,

If this importunate heart trouble your peace With words lighter than air, Or hopes that in mere hoping flicker and cease;

I hear the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake, Their hoofs heavy with tumult, their eyes glimmering white; The North unfolds above them clinging, creeping night,

When my arms wrap you round I press My heart upon the loveliness That has long faded from the world;

I asked if I should pray. But the Brahmin said, "pray for nothing, say

Do you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns! I have been changed to a hound with one red ear; I have been in the Path of Stones and the Wood of Thorns,

I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young And weep because I know all things now: I have been a hazel tree and they hung

Book I i(S. Patrick.) You who are bent, and bald, and blind, With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,

Never give all the heart, for love Will hardly seem worth thinking of To passionate women if it seem

There all the golden codgers lay, There the silver dew, And the great water sighed for love,

Many ingenious lovely things are gone That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude, protected from the circle of the moon

Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,

Sweetheart, do not love too long: I loved long and long, And grew to be out of fashion

In tombs of gold and lapis lazuli Bodies of holy men and women exude Miraculous oil, odour of violet.

O thought, fly to her when the end of day Awakens an old memory, and say, "Your strength, that is so lofty and fierce and kind,

Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood, Even where horrible green parrots call and swing. My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud.

She that but little patience knew, From childhood on, had now so much A grey gull lost its fear and flew

I think it better that in times like these A poet keep his mouth shut, for in truth We have no gift to set a statesman right;

Where, where but here have Pride and Truth, That long to give themselves for wage, To shake their wicked sides at youth

Once, when midnight smote the air, Eunuchs ran through Hell and met On every crowded street to stare

May God be praised for woman That gives up all her mind, A man may find in no man

A strange thing surely that my Heart, when love had come unsought Upon the Norman upland or in that poplar shade, Should find no burden but itself and yet should be worn out.

PARNELL'S FUNERAL Under the Great Comedian's tomb the crowd. A bundle of tempestuous cloud is blown

Indignant at the fumbling wits, the obscure spite Of our old Paudeen in his shop, I stumbled blind Among the stones and thorn trees, under morning light;

Ah, that Time could touch a form That could show what Homer's age Bred to be a hero's wage.

How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian

This night has been so strange that it seemed As if the hair stood up on my head. From going-down of the sun I have dreamed

Where had her sweetness gone? What fanatics invent In this blind bitter town,

Some may have blamed you that you took away The verses that could move them on the day When, the ears being deafened, the sight of the eyes blind

The old brown thorn-trees break in two high over Cummen Strand, Under a bitter black wind that blows from the left hand; Our courage breaks like an old tree in a black wind and dies,

I ranted to the knave and fool, But outgrew that school, Would transform the part,

Pardon, old fathers, if you still remain Somewhere in ear-shot for the story's end, Old Dublin merchant "free of the ten and four"

Because you have found me in the pitch-dark night With open book you ask me what I do. Mark and digest my tale, carry it afar

Why should I seek for love or study it? It is of God and passes human wit. I study hatred with great diligence,

An abstract Greek absurdity has crazed the man -- Recall that masculine Trinity. Man, woman, child (a daughter or a son),

What matter that you understood no word! Doubtless I spoke or sang what I had heard In broken sentences. My soul had found

I say that Roger Casement Did what he had to do. He died upon the gallows,

As I came over Windy Gap They threw a halfpenny into my cap, For I am running to Paradise;

I That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees

What need you, being come to sense, But fumble in a greasy till And add the halfpence to the pence

i(Shepherd.) That cry's from the first cuckoo of the year. I wished before it ceased. i(Goatherd.) Nor bird nor beast

O but we talked at large before The sixteen men were shot, But who can talk of give and take,

Slim adolescence that a nymph has stripped, Peleus on Thetis stares. Her limbs are delicate as an eyelid,

And thus declared that Arab lady: "Last night, where under the wild moon On grassy mattress I had laid me,

Sang Solomon to Sheba, And kissed her dusky face, 'All day long from mid-day

We that have done and thought, That have thought and done, Must ramble, and thin out

"Those Platonists are a curse," he said, "God's fire upon the wane, A diagram hung there instead,

Through intricate motions ran Stream and gliding sun And all my heart seemed gay:

I i(Ribb at the Tomb of Baile and Aillinn) Because you have found me in the pitch-dark night

The girl goes dancing there On the leaf-sown, new-mown, smooth Grass plot of the garden;

Swift has sailed into his rest; Savage indignation there Cannot lacerate his breast.

A storm beaten old watch-tower, A blind hermit rings the hour. All-destroying sword-blade still

She lived in storm and strife, Her soul had such desire For what proud death may bring

Because there is safety in derision I talked about an apparition, I took no trouble to convince,

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,

Once, when midnight smote the air, Eunuchs ran through Hell and met From thoroughfare to thoroughfare,

The old priest Peter Gilligan Was weary night and day; For half his flock were in their beds,

Good Father John O'Hart In penal days rode out To a Shoneen who had free lands

Come round me, little childer; There, don't fling stones at me Because I mutter as I go;

'Lay me in a cushioned chair; Carry me, ye four, With cushions here and cushions there,

Hands, do what you're bid; Bring the balloon of the mind That bellies and drags in the wind

Say that the men of the old black tower, Though they but feed as the goatherd feeds, Their money spent, their wine gone sour,

Cumhal called out, bending his head, Till Dathi came and stood, With a blink in his eyes at the cave mouth,

The jester walked in the garden: The garden had fallen still; He bade his soul rise upward

The cat went here and there And the moon spun round like a top, And the nearest kin of the moon

How came this ranger Now sunk in rest, Stranger with strangcr.

From pleasure of the bed, Dull as a worm, His rod and its butting head

The intellect of man is forced to choose perfection of the life, or of the work, And if it take the second must refuse

I sought a theme and sought for it in vain, I sought it daily for six weeks or so. Maybe at last, being but a broken man,

"What do you make so fair and bright?" "I make the cloak of Sorrow: O lovely to see in all men's sight

Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting Heaven That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice, And thereupon imagination and heart were driven

Would I could cast a sail on the water Where many a king has gone And many a king's daughter,

Though leaves are many, the root is one; Through all the lying days of my youth I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;

I Had this thought awhile ago, 'My darling cannot understand What I have done, or what would do

All the heavy days are over; Leave the body's coloured pride Underneath the grass and clover,

You ask what -- I have found, and far and wide I go: Nothing but Cromwell's house and Cromwell's mur- derous crew,

I would be ignorant as the dawn That has looked down On that old queen measuring a town

There was a green branch hung with many a bell When her own people ruled this tragic Eire; And from its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery,

Behold that great Plotinus swim, Buffeted by such seas; Bland Rhadamanthus beckons him,

A Doll in the doll-maker's house Looks at the cradle and balls: 'That is an insult to us.'

On the grey rock of Cashel the mind's eye Has called up the cold spirits that are born When the old moon is vanished from the sky

O sweet everlasting Voices be still; Go to the guards of the heavenly fold And bid them wander obeying your will

Autumn is over the long leaves that love us, And over the mice in the barley sheaves; Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us,

The Fascination of what's difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content

When I play on my fiddle in Dooney, Folk dance like a wave of the sea; My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,

Although you hide in the ebb and flow Of the pale tide when the moon has set, The people of coming days will know

Although I can see him still, The freckled man who goes To a grey place on a hill

One that is ever kind said yesterday: "Your well-beloved's hair has threads of grey, And little shadows come about her eyes;

When all works that have From cradle run to grave From grave to cradle run instead;

He with body waged a fight, But body won; it walks upright. Then he struggled with the heart;

O what has made that sudden noise? What on the threshold stands? It never crossed the sea because

Kusta Ben Luka is my name, I write To Abd Al-Rabban; fellow-roysterer once, Now the good Caliph's learned Treasurer,

Hurrah for revolution and more cannon-shot! A beggar upon horseback lashes a beggar on foot. Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again!

Poets with whom I learned my trade, Companions of the Cheshire Cheese, Here's an old story I've re-made,

The gyres! the gyres! Old Rocky Face, look forth; Things thought too long can be no longer thought, For beauty dies of beauty, worth of worth,

Edain came out of Midhir's hill, and lay Beside young Aengus in his tower of glass, Where time is drowned in odour-laden winds

'Call down the hawk from the air; Let him be hooded or caged Till the yellow eye has grown mild,

O what to me the little room That was brimmed up with prayer and rest; He bade me out into the gloom,

O'Driscoll drove with a song, The wild duck and the drake, From the tall and the tufted reeds

The host is riding from Knocknarea And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare; Caolte tossing his burning hair

A one-legged, one-armed, one-eyed man, A bundle of rags upon a crutch, Stumbled on windy Cruachan

He said we might choose the subject for the lesson The Persons of the Play Wise Man.

The island dreams under the dawn And great boughs drop tranquillity; The peahens dance on a smooth lawn,

I passed along the water's edge below the humid trees, My spirit rocked in evening light, the rushes round my knees, My spirit rocked in sleep and sighs; and saw the moor-fowl pace

I turn round Like a dumb beast in a show. Neither know what I am

What sort of man is coming To lie between your feet? What matter, we are but women.

When you and my true lover meet And he plays tunes between your feet. Speak no evil of the soul,

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,

Although I shelter from the rain Under a broken tree, My chair was nearest to the fire

They must to keep their certainty accuse All that are different of a base intent; Pull down established honour; hawk for news

I'll say and maybe dream I have drawn content' Seeing that time has frozen up the blood, The wick of youth being burned and the oil spent'

If this importunate heart trouble your peace With words lighter than air, Or hopes that in mere hoping flicker and cease;

Pale brows, still hands and dim hair, I had a beautiful friend And dreamed that the old despair

Though you are in your shining days, Voices among the crowd And new friends busy with your praise,

O women, kneeling by your altar-rails long hence, When songs I wove for my beloved hide the prayer, And smoke from this dead heart drifts through the violet air

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old, The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lum-

Bird sighs for the air, Thought for I know not where, For the womb the seed sighs.

I sat on cushioned otter-skin: My word was law from Ith to Emain, And shook at Inver Amergin

Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye, In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky

i(Man) In a cleft that's christened Alt Under broken stone I halt

He stood among a crowd at Dromahair; His heart hung all upon a silken dress, And he had known at last some tenderness,

'Put off that mask of burning gold With emerald eyes.' 'O no, my dear, you make so bold

You waves, though you dance by my feet like children at play, Though you glow and you glance, though you purr and

Time drops in decay, Like a candle burnt out, And the mountains and woods

The threefold terror of love; a fallen flare Through the hollow of an ear; Wings beating about the room;

Pour wine and dance if Manhood still have pride, Bring roses if the rose be yet in bloom; The cataract smokes upon the mountain side,

Around me the images of thirty years: An ambush; pilgrims at the water-side; Casement upon trial, half hidden by the bars,

If you, that have grown old, were the first dead, Neither catalpa tree nor scented lime Should hear my living feet, nor would I tread

Though the great song return no more There's keen delight in what we have: The rattle of pebbles on the shore

Sing of the O'Rahilly, Do not deny his right; Sing a "the' before his name;

i(A certain poet in outlandish clothes) i(Gathered a crowd in some Byzantine lane,) i(Talked1 of his country and its people, sang)

I heard the old, old men say, "Everything alters, And one by one we drop away."

A statesman is an easy man, He tells his lies by rote; A journalist makes up his lies

What's riches to him That has made a great peacock With the pride of his eye?

'What have I earned for all that work,' I said, 'For all that I have done at my own charge? The daily spite of this unmannerly town,

An old man cocked his ear upon a bridge; He and his friend, their faces to the South, Had trod the uneven road. Their boots were soiled,

I fasted for some forty days on bread and buttermilk, For passing round the bottle with girls in rags or silk, In country shawl or Paris cloak, had put my wits astray,

My mother dandled me and sang, 'How young it is, how young!' And made a golden cradle

i(Three Voices together].) Hurry to bless the hands that play, The mouths that speak, the notes and strings, O masters of the glittering town!

Though you are in your shining days, Voices among the crowd And new friends busy with your praise,

O hurry where by water among the trees The delicate-stepping stag and his lady sigh, When they have but looked upon their images --

Hope that you may understand! What can books of men that wive In a dragon-guarded land,

Acquaintance; companion; One dear brilliant woman; The best-endowed, the elect,

Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World! The tall thought-woven sails, that flap unfurled Above the tide of hours, trouble the air,

If Michael, leader of God's host When Heaven and Hell are met, Looked down on you from Heaven's door-post

Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream? For these red lips, with all their mournful pride, Mournful that no new wonder may betide,

"O words are lightly spoken," Said Pearse to Connolly, "Maybe a breath of politic words

Shepherd That cry's from the first cuckoo of the year I wished before it ceased. Goatherd Nor bird nor beast

Hunchback. Stand up and lift your hand and bless A man that finds great bitterness In thinking of his lost renown.

Bald heads forgetful of their sins, Old, learned, respectable bald heads Edit and annotate the lines

Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose, Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre,

i(The First.) My great-grandfather spoke to Edmund Burke In Grattan's house. i(The Second.) My great-grandfather shared

A Dramatic Poem The deck of an ancient ship. At the right of the stage is the mast, with a large square sail hiding a great deal of the sky and sea

The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed;

I Rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow; And then I must scrub and bake and sweep

I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves The brilliant moon and all the milky sky, And all that famous harmony of leaves,

Poetry, music, I have loved, and yet Because of those new dead That come into my soul and escape

You think it horrible that lust and rage Should dance attention upon my old age; They were not such a plague when I was young;

I Lived among great houses, Riches drove out rank, Base drove out the better blood,

Pythagoras planned it. Why did the people stare? His numbers, though they moved or seemed to move In marble or in bronze, lacked character.

Where dips the rocky highland Of Sleuth Wood in the lake, There lies a leafy island

'Though to my feathers in the wet, I have stood here from break of day, I have not found a thing to eat

Said lady once to lover, "None can rely upon A love that lacks its proper food;

Three old hermits took the air By a cold and desolate sea, First was muttering a prayer,

They hold their public meetings where Our most renowned patriots stand, One among the birds of the air,

SAILING TO BYZANTIUM I That is no country for old men. The young

When the flaming lute-thronged angelic door is wide; When an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay; Our hearts endure the scourge, the plaited thorns, the way

King Eochaid came at sundown to a wood Westward of Tara. Hurrying to his queen He had out-ridden his war-wasted men

Beloved, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there; From joy the holy branches start,

The Danaan children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold, And clap their hands together, and half close their eyes, For they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies,

The dews drop slowly and dreams gather: unknown spears Suddenly hurtle before my dream-awakened eyes, And then the clash of fallen horsemen and the cries

'The man that I praise,' Cries out the empty well, 'Lives all his days

Through winter-time we call on spring, And through the spring on summer call, And when abounding hedges ring

I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea! We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fade

Because I am mad about women I am mad about the hills," Said that wild old wicked man Who travels where God wills. "Not to die on the straw at home. Those hands to close these eyes, That is all I ask, my dear, From the old man in the skies. i(Daybreak and a candle-end.) "Kind are all your words, my dear, Do not the rest withhold. Who can know the year, my dear, when an old man's blood grows cold? " I have what no young man can have Because he loves too much. Words I have that can pierce the heart, But what can he do but touch?" i(Daybreak and a candle-end.) Then Said she to that wild old man, His stout stick under his hand, "Love to give or to withhold Is not at my command. I gave it all to an older man: That old man in the skies. Hands that are busy with His beads Can never close those eyes." i(Daybreak and a candle-end.) "Go your ways, O go your ways, I choose another mark, Girls down on the seashore Who understand the dark; Bawdy talk for the fishermen; A dance for the fisher-lads; When dark hangs upon the water They turn down their beds. i(Daybreak and a candle-end.) "A young man in the dark am I, But a wild old man in the light, That can make a cat laugh, or Can touch by mother wit Things hid in their marrow-bones From time long passed away, Hid from all those warty lads That by their bodies lay. i(Dayhreak and a candle-end.) "All men live in suffering, I know as few can know, Whether they take the upper road Or stay content on the low, Rower bent in his row-boat Or weaver bent at his loom, Horseman erect upon horseback Or child hid in the womb. i(Daybreak and a candlc-cnd.) "That some stream of lightning From the old man in the skies Can burn out that suffering No right-taught man denies. But a coarse old man am I, I choose the second-best, I forget it all awhile Upon a woman's breast." i(Daybreak and a candlc-end.)

The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water

IN MEMORY OF EVA GORE-BOOTH AND CON MARKIEWICZ The light of evening, Lissadell, Great windows open to the south,

Toil and grow rich, What's that but to lie With a foul witch

I cried when the moon was murmuring to the birds: "Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will, I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words,

I Whispered, 'I am too young,' And then, 'I am old enough'; Wherefore I threw a penny

Crazed through much child-bearing The moon is staggering in the sky; Moon-struck by the despairing

There all the barrel-hoops are knit, There all the serpent-tails are bit, There all the gyres converge in one,

These are the clouds about the fallen sun, The majesty that shuts his burning eye; The weak lay hand on what the strong has done,

What if I bade you leave The cavern of the mind? There's better exercise

Remember all those renowned generations, They left their bodies to fatten the wolves, They left their homesteads to fatten the foxes,

Shakespearean fish swam the sea, far away from land; Romantic fish swam in nets coming to the hand; What are all those fish that lie gasping on the strand?

The Roaring Tinker if you like, But Mannion is my name, And I beat up the common sort

I Grandfather sang it under the gallows: " Hear, gentlemen, ladies, and all mankind:

I Dance there upon the shore; What need have you to care

Now all the truth is out, Be secret and take defeat From any brazen throat,

You say, as I have often given tongue In praise of what another's said or sung, 'Twere politic to do the like by these;

If you have revisited the town, thin Shade, Whether to look upon your monument (I wonder if the builder has been paid)

Come play with me; Why should you run Through the shaking tree

You gave but will not give again Until enough of Paudeen's pence By Biddy's halfpennies have lain

Dear fellow-artist, why so free With every sort of company, With every Jack and Jill?

My dear, my dear, I know More than another What makes your heart beat so;

Shy one, Shy one, Shy one of my heart, She moves in the firelight

I, The poet William Yeats, With old mill boards and sea-green slates, And smithy work from the Gort forge,

Stretch towards the moonless midnight of the trees, As though that hand could reach to where they stand, And they but famous old upholsteries

Know, that I would accounted be True brother of a company That sang, to sweeten Ireland's wrong,

Be you still, be you still, trembling heart; Remember the wisdom out of the old days: Him who trembles before the flame and the flood,

While I wrought out these fitful Danaan rhymes, My heart would brim with dreams about the times When we bent down above the fading coals

i(Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!) i(Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways:) i(Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide;)

'Though logic choppers rule the town, And every man and maid and boy Has marked a distant object down,

Was it the double of my dream The woman that by me lay Dreamed, or did we halve a dream

I saw a staring virgin stand Where holy Dionysus died, And tear the heart out of his side.

A speckled cat and a tame hare Eat at my hearthstone And sleep there;

I My Paistin Finn is my sole desire, And I am shrunken to skin and bone,

Has no one said those daring Kind eyes should be more learn'd? Or warned you how despairing

I Swear by what the sages spoke Round the Mareotic Lake

Do not because this day I have grown saturnine Imagine that lost love, inseparable from my thought Because I have no other youth, can make me pine;

I have no happiness in dreaming of Brycelinde, Nor Avalon the grass-green hollow, nor Joyous Isle, Where one found Lancelot crazed and hid him for a while;

'Although I'd lie lapped up in linen A deal I'd sweat and little earn If I should live as live the neighbours,'

I Her Courtesy With the old kindness, the old distinguished grace

How should the world be luckier if this house, Where passion and precision have been one Time out of mind, became too ruinous

I Between extremities Man runs his course;

The Heavenly Circuit; Berenice's Hair; Tent-pole of Eden; the tent's drapery; Symbolical glory of the earth and air!

He holds him from desire, all but stops his breathing lest primordial Motherhood forsake his limbs, the child no

His chosen comrades thought at school He must grow a famous man; He thought the same and lived by rule,

I sing what was lost and dread what was won, I walk in a battle fought over again, My king a lost king, and lost soldiers my men;

We have cried in our despair That men desert, For some trivial affair

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Eternity is passion, girl or boy Cry at the onset of their sexual joy "For ever and for ever'; then awake

Who will go drive with Fergus now, And pierce the deep wood's woven shade, And dance upon the level shore?

Why should not old men be mad? Some have known a likely lad That had a sound fly-fisher's wrist

The true faith discovered was When painted panel, statuary. Glass-mosaic, window-glass,

I had this thought a while ago, "My darling cannot understand What I have done, or what would do

Crazy Jane And The Bishop Bring me to the blasted oak That I, midnight upon the stroke,

Much did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue