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diff --git a/32491.txt b/32491.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3754062 --- /dev/null +++ b/32491.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2475 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The Wild Swans at Coole, by William Butler (W.B.) Yeats + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Wild Swans at Coole + +Author: William Butler (W.B.) Yeats + +Release Date: May 23, 2010 [EBook #32491] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WILD SWANS AT COOLE *** + + + + +Produced by Meredith Bach and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + + + +THE WILD SWANS AT COOLE + +[Illustration] + +THE MACMILLAN COMPANY +NEW YORK - BOSTON - CHICAGO - DALLAS +ATLANTA - SAN FRANCISCO + +MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED +LONDON - BOMBAY - CALCUTTA +MELBOURNE + +THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. +TORONTO + + + + +THE WILD SWANS +AT COOLE + +BY + +W. B. YEATS + +New York +THE MACMILLAN COMPANY +1919 + +_All rights reserved_ + +COPYRIGHT, 1917 AND 1918, +BY MARGARET C. ANDERSON. + +COPYRIGHT, 1918, +BY HARRIET MONROE. + +COPYRIGHT, 1918 AND 1919, +BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. + +Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1919. + +Norwood Press +J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co. +Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. + + + + +PREFACE + + +This book is, in part, a reprint of _The Wild Swans at Coole_, printed a +year ago on my sister's hand-press at Dundrum, Co. Dublin. I have not, +however, reprinted a play which may be a part of a book of new plays +suggested by the dance plays of Japan, and I have added a number of new +poems. Michael Robartes and John Aherne, whose names occur in one or +other of these, are characters in some stories I wrote years ago, who +have once again become a part of the phantasmagoria through which I can +alone express my convictions about the world. I have the fancy that I +read the name John Aherne among those of men prosecuted for making a +disturbance at the first production of "The Play Boy," which may account +for his animosity to myself. + +W. B. Y. + +BALLYLEE, CO. GALWAY, +_September 1918_. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + +THE WILD SWANS AT COOLE 1 + +IN MEMORY OF MAJOR ROBERT GREGORY 4 + +AN IRISH AIRMAN FORESEES HIS DEATH 13 + +MEN IMPROVE WITH THE YEARS 14 + +THE COLLAR-BONE OF A HARE 15 + +UNDER THE ROUND TOWER 17 + +SOLOMON TO SHEBA 19 + +THE LIVING BEAUTY 21 + +A SONG 22 + +TO A YOUNG BEAUTY 23 + +TO A YOUNG GIRL 24 + +THE SCHOLARS 25 + +TOM O'ROUGHLEY 26 + +THE SAD SHEPHERD 27 + +LINES WRITTEN IN DEJECTION 39 + +THE DAWN 40 + +ON WOMAN 41 + +THE FISHERMAN 44 + +THE HAWK 46 + +MEMORY 47 + +HER PRAISE 48 + +THE PEOPLE 50 + +HIS PHOENIX 54 + +A THOUGHT FROM PROPERTIUS 58 + +BROKEN DREAMS 59 + +A DEEP-SWORN VOW 63 + +PRESENCES 64 + +THE BALLOON OF THE MIND 66 + +TO A SQUIRREL AT KYLE-NA-GNO 67 + +ON BEING ASKED FOR A WAR POEM 68 + +IN MEMORY OF ALFRED POLLEXFEN 69 + +UPON A DYING LADY 72 + +EGO DOMINUS TUUS 79 + +A PRAYER ON GOING INTO MY HOUSE 86 + +THE PHASES OF THE MOON 88 + +THE CAT AND THE MOON 102 + +THE SAINT AND THE HUNCHBACK 104 + +TWO SONGS OF A FOOL 106 + +ANOTHER SONG OF A FOOL 108 + +THE DOUBLE VISION OF MICHAEL ROBARTES 109 + +NOTE 115 + + + + +THE WILD SWANS AT COOLE + + + The trees are in their autumn beauty, + The woodland paths are dry, + Under the October twilight the water + Mirrors a still sky; + Upon the brimming water among the stones + Are nine and fifty swans. + + The nineteenth Autumn has come upon me + Since I first made my count; + I saw, before I had well finished, + All suddenly mount + And scatter wheeling in great broken rings + Upon their clamorous wings. + + I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, + And now my heart is sore. + All's changed since I, hearing at twilight, + The first time on this shore, + The bell-beat of their wings above my head, + Trod with a lighter tread. + + Unwearied still, lover by lover, + They paddle in the cold, + Companionable streams or climb the air; + Their hearts have not grown old; + Passion or conquest, wander where they will, + Attend upon them still. + + But now they drift on the still water + Mysterious, beautiful; + Among what rushes will they build, + By what lake's edge or pool + Delight men's eyes, when I awake some day + To find they have flown away? + + + + +IN MEMORY OF MAJOR ROBERT GREGORY + + +1 + + Now that we're almost settled in our house + I'll name the friends that cannot sup with us + Beside a fire of turf in the ancient tower, + And having talked to some late hour + Climb up the narrow winding stair to bed: + Discoverers of forgotten truth + Or mere companions of my youth, + All, all are in my thoughts to-night, being dead. + + +2 + + Always we'd have the new friend meet the old, + And we are hurt if either friend seem cold, + And there is salt to lengthen out the smart + In the affections of our heart, + And quarrels are blown up upon that head; + But not a friend that I would bring + This night can set us quarrelling, + For all that come into my mind are dead. + + +3 + + Lionel Johnson comes the first to mind, + That loved his learning better than mankind, + Though courteous to the worst; much falling he + Brooded upon sanctity + Till all his Greek and Latin learning seemed + A long blast upon the horn that brought + A little nearer to his thought + A measureless consummation that he dreamed. + + +4 + + And that enquiring man John Synge comes next, + That dying chose the living world for text + And never could have rested in the tomb + But that, long travelling, he had come + Towards nightfall upon certain set apart + In a most desolate stony place, + Towards nightfall upon a race + Passionate and simple like his heart. + + +5 + + And then I think of old George Pollexfen, + In muscular youth well known to Mayo men + For horsemanship at meets or at race-courses, + That could have shown how purebred horses + And solid men, for all their passion, live + But as the outrageous stars incline + By opposition, square and trine; + Having grown sluggish and contemplative. + + +6 + + They were my close companions many a year, + A portion of my mind and life, as it were, + And now their breathless faces seem to look + Out of some old picture-book; + I am accustomed to their lack of breath, + But not that my dear friend's dear son, + Our Sidney and our perfect man, + Could share in that discourtesy of death. + + +7 + + For all things the delighted eye now sees + Were loved by him; the old storm-broken trees + That cast their shadows upon road and bridge; + The tower set on the stream's edge; + The ford where drinking cattle make a stir + Nightly, and startled by that sound + The water-hen must change her ground; + He might have been your heartiest welcomer. + + +8 + + When with the Galway foxhounds he would ride + From Castle Taylor to the Roxborough side + Or Esserkelly plain, few kept his pace; + At Mooneen he had leaped a place + So perilous that half the astonished meet + Had shut their eyes, and where was it + He rode a race without a bit? + And yet his mind outran the horses' feet. + + +9 + + We dreamed that a great painter had been born + To cold Clare rock and Galway rock and thorn, + To that stern colour and that delicate line + That are our secret discipline + Wherein the gazing heart doubles her might. + Soldier, scholar, horseman, he, + And yet he had the intensity + To have published all to be a world's delight. + + +10 + + What other could so well have counselled us + In all lovely intricacies of a house + As he that practised or that understood + All work in metal or in wood, + In moulded plaster or in carven stone? + Soldier, scholar, horseman, he, + And all he did done perfectly + As though he had but that one trade alone. + + +11 + + Some burn damp fagots, others may consume + The entire combustible world in one small room + As though dried straw, and if we turn about + The bare chimney is gone black out + Because 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? + + +12 + + I had thought, seeing how bitter is that wind + That shakes the shutter, to have brought to mind + All those that manhood tried, or childhood loved, + Or boyish intellect approved, + With some appropriate commentary on each; + Until imagination brought + A fitter welcome; but a thought + Of that late death took all my heart for speech. + + + + +AN IRISH AIRMAN FORESEES HIS DEATH + + + I know that I shall meet my fate + Somewhere among the clouds above; + Those that I fight I do not hate + Those that I guard I do not love; + My country is Kiltartan Cross, + My countrymen Kiltartan's poor, + No likely end could bring them loss + Or leave them happier than before. + Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, + Nor public man, nor angry crowds, + A lonely impulse of delight + Drove 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 behind + In balance with this life, this death. + + + + +MEN IMPROVE WITH THE YEARS + + + I am worn out with dreams; + A weather-worn, marble triton + Among the streams; + And all day long I look + Upon this lady's beauty + As though I had found in book + A pictured beauty, + Pleased to have filled the eyes + Or the discerning ears, + Delighted to be but wise, + For men improve with the years; + And yet and yet + Is this my dream, or the truth? + O would that we had met + When I had my burning youth; + But I grow old among dreams, + A weather-worn, marble triton + Among the streams. + + + + +THE COLLAR-BONE OF A HARE + + + Would I could cast a sail on the water + Where many a king has gone + And many a king's daughter, + And alight at the comely trees and the lawn, + The playing upon pipes and the dancing, + And learn that the best thing is + To change my loves while dancing + And pay but a kiss for a kiss. + + I would find by the edge of that water + The collar-bone of a hare + Worn thin by the lapping of water, + And pierce it through with a gimlet and stare + At the old bitter world where they marry in churches, + And laugh over the untroubled water + At all who marry in churches, + Through the white thin bone of a hare. + + + + +UNDER THE ROUND TOWER + + + 'Although I'd lie lapped up in linen + A deal I'd sweat and little earn + If I should live as live the neighbours,' + Cried the beggar, Billy Byrne; + 'Stretch bones till the daylight come + On great-grandfather's battered tomb.' + + Upon a grey old battered tombstone + In Glendalough beside the stream, + Where the O'Byrnes and Byrnes are buried, + He stretched his bones and fell in a dream + Of sun and moon that a good hour + Bellowed and pranced in the round tower; + Of golden king and silver lady, + Bellowing up and bellowing round, + Till toes mastered a sweet measure, + Mouth mastered a sweet sound, + Prancing round and prancing up + Until they pranced upon the top. + + That golden king and that wild lady + Sang till stars began to fade, + Hands gripped in hands, toes close together, + Hair spread on the wind they made; + That lady and that golden king + Could like a brace of blackbirds sing. + + 'It's certain that my luck is broken,' + That rambling jailbird Billy said; + 'Before nightfall I'll pick a pocket + And snug it in a feather-bed, + I cannot find the peace of home + On great-grandfather's battered tomb.' + + + + +SOLOMON TO SHEBA + + + Sang Solomon to Sheba, + And kissed her dusky face, + 'All day long from mid-day + We have talked in the one place, + All day long from shadowless noon + We have gone round and round + In the narrow theme of love + Like an old horse in a pound.' + + To Solomon sang Sheba, + Planted on his knees, + 'If you had broached a matter + That might the learned please, + You had before the sun had thrown + Our shadows on the ground + Discovered that my thoughts, not it, + Are but a narrow pound.' + + Sang Solomon to Sheba, + And kissed her Arab eyes, + 'There's not a man or woman + Born under the skies + Dare match in learning with us two, + And all day long we have found + There's not a thing but love can make + The world a narrow pound.' + + + + +THE LIVING BEAUTY + + + 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-- + From beauty that is cast out of a mould + In bronze, or that in dazzling marble appears, + Appears, and when we have gone is gone again, + Being more indifferent to our solitude + Than 'twere an apparition. O heart, we are old, + The living beauty is for younger men, + We cannot pay its tribute of wild tears. + + + + +A SONG + + + I thought no more was needed + Youth to prolong + Than dumb-bell and foil + To keep the body young. + Oh, who could have foretold + That the heart grows old? + + Though I have many words, + What woman's satisfied, + I am no longer faint + Because at her side? + Oh, who could have foretold + That the heart grows old? + + I have not lost desire + But the heart that I had, + I thought 'twould burn my body + Laid on the death-bed. + But who could have foretold + That the heart grows old? + + + + +TO A YOUNG BEAUTY + + + Dear fellow-artist, why so free + With every sort of company, + With every Jack and Jill? + Choose your companions from the best; + Who draws a bucket with the rest + Soon topples down the hill. + + You may, that mirror for a school, + Be passionate, not bountiful + As common beauties may, + Who were not born to keep in trim + With old Ezekiel's cherubim + But those of Beaujolet. + + 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 end + With Landor and with Donne. + + + + +TO A YOUNG GIRL + + + My dear, my dear, I know + More than another + What makes your heart beat so; + Not even your own mother + Can know it as I know, + Who broke my heart for her + When the wild thought, + That she denies + And has forgot, + Set all her blood astir + And glittered in her eyes. + + + + +THE SCHOLARS + + + Bald heads forgetful of their sins, + Old, learned, respectable bald heads + Edit and annotate the lines + That young men, tossing on their beds, + Rhymed out in love's despair + To flatter beauty's ignorant ear. + + They'll cough in the ink to the world's end; + Wear out the carpet with their shoes + Earning respect; have no strange friend; + If they have sinned nobody knows. + Lord, what would they say + Should their Catullus walk that way? + + + + +TOM O'ROUGHLEY + + + 'Though logic choppers rule the town, + And every man and maid and boy + Has marked a distant object down, + An aimless joy is a pure joy,' + Or so did Tom O'Roughley say + That saw the surges running by, + 'And wisdom is a butterfly + And not a gloomy bird of prey. + + 'If little planned is little sinned + But little need the grave distress. + What's dying but a second wind? + How but in zigzag wantonness + Could trumpeter Michael be so brave?' + Or something of that sort he said, + 'And if my dearest friend were dead + I'd dance a measure on his grave.' + + + + +THE SAD SHEPHERD + + +SHEPHERD + +That cry's from the first cuckoo of the year +I wished before it ceased. + +GOATHERD + + Nor bird nor beast +Could make me wish for anything this day, +Being old, but that the old alone might die, +And that would be against God's Providence. +Let the young wish. But what has brought you here? +Never until this moment have we met +Where my goats browse on the scarce grass or leap +From stone to stone. + +SHEPHERD + + I am looking for strayed sheep; +Something has troubled me and in my trouble +I let them stray. I thought of rhyme alone, +For rhyme can beat a measure out of trouble +And make the daylight sweet once more; but when +I had driven every rhyme into its place +The sheep had gone from theirs. + +GOATHERD + + I know right well +What turned so good a shepherd from his charge. + +SHEPHERD + +He that was best in every country sport +And every country craft, and of us all +Most courteous to slow age and hasty youth +Is dead. + +GOATHERD + + The boy that brings my griddle cake +Brought the bare news. + +SHEPHERD + + He had thrown the crook away +And died in the great war beyond the sea. + +GOATHERD + +He had often played his pipes among my hills +And when he played it was their loneliness, +The exultation of their stone, that cried +Under his fingers. + +SHEPHERD + + I had it from his mother, +And his own flock was browsing at the door. + +GOATHERD + +How does she bear her grief? There is not a shepherd +But grows more gentle when he speaks her name, +Remembering kindness done, and how can I, +That found when I had neither goat nor grazing +New welcome and old wisdom at her fire +Till winter blasts were gone, but speak of her +Even before his children and his wife. + +SHEPHERD + +She goes about her house erect and calm +Between the pantry and the linen chest, +Or else at meadow or at grazing overlooks +Her labouring men, as though her darling lived +But for her grandson now; there is no change +But such as I have seen upon her face +Watching our shepherd sports at harvest-time +When her son's turn was over. + +GOATHERD + + Sing your song, +I too have rhymed my reveries, but youth +Is hot to show whatever it has found +And till that's done can neither work nor wait. +Old goatherds and old goats, if in all else +Youth can excel them in accomplishment, +Are learned in waiting. + +SHEPHERD + + You cannot but have seen +That he alone had gathered up no gear, +Set carpenters to work on no wide table, +On no long bench nor lofty milking shed +As others will, when first they take possession, +But left the house as in his father's time +As though he knew himself, as it were, a cuckoo, +No settled man. And now that he is gone +There's nothing of him left but half a score +Of sorrowful, austere, sweet, lofty pipe tunes. + +GOATHERD + +You have put the thought in rhyme. + +SHEPHERD + + I worked all day +And when 'twas done so little had I done +That maybe 'I am sorry' in plain prose +Had sounded better to your mountain fancy. + +[_He sings._ + +'Like the speckled bird that steers +Thousands of leagues oversea, +And runs for a while or a while half-flies +Upon his yellow legs through our meadows, +He stayed for a while; and we +Had scarcely accustomed our ears +To his speech at the break of day, +Had scarcely accustomed our eyes +To his shape in the lengthening shadows, +Where the sheep are thrown in the pool, +When he vanished from ears and eyes. +I had wished a dear thing on that day +I heard him first, but man is a fool.' + +GOATHERD + +You sing as always of the natural life, +And I that made like music in my youth +Hearing it now have sighed for that young man +And certain lost companions of my own. + +SHEPHERD + +They say that on your barren mountain ridge +You have measured out the road that the soul treads +When it has vanished from our natural eyes; +That you have talked with apparitions. + +GOATHERD + + Indeed +My daily thoughts since the first stupor of youth +Have found the path my goats' feet cannot find. + +SHEPHERD + +Sing, for it may be that your thoughts have plucked +Some medicable herb to make our grief +Less bitter. + +GOATHERD + + They have brought me from that ridge +Seed pods and flowers that are not all wild poppy. + +[_Sings._ + +'He grows younger every second +That were all his birthdays reckoned +Much too solemn seemed; +Because of what he had dreamed, +Or the ambitions that he served, +Much too solemn and reserved. +Jaunting, journeying +To his own dayspring, +He unpacks the loaded pern +Of all 'twas pain or joy to learn, +Of all that he had made. +The outrageous war shall fade; +At some old winding whitethorn root +He'll practice on the shepherd's flute, +Or on the close-cropped grass +Court his shepherd lass, +Or run where lads reform our day-time +Till that is their long shouting play-time; +Knowledge he shall unwind +Through victories of the mind, +Till, clambering at the cradle side, +He dreams himself his mother's pride, +All knowledge lost in trance +Of sweeter ignorance.' + +SHEPHERD + +When I have shut these ewes and this old ram +Into the fold, we'll to the woods and there +Cut out our rhymes on strips of new-torn bark +But put no name and leave them at her door. +To know the mountain and the valley grieve +May be a quiet thought to wife and mother, +And children when they spring up shoulder high. + + + + +LINES WRITTEN IN DEJECTION + + + When have I last looked on + The round green eyes and the long wavering bodies + Of 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. + The holy centaurs of the hills are banished; + And I have nothing but harsh sun; + Heroic mother moon has vanished, + And now that I have come to fifty years + I must endure the timid sun. + + + + +THE DAWN + + + I would be ignorant as the dawn + That has looked down + On that old queen measuring a town + With the pin of a brooch, + Or on the withered men that saw + From their pedantic Babylon + The careless planets in their courses, + The stars fade out where the moon comes, + And took their tablets and did sums; + I would be ignorant as the dawn + That merely stood, rocking the glittering coach + Above the cloudy shoulders of the horses; + I would be--for no knowledge is worth a straw-- + Ignorant and wanton as the dawn. + + + + +ON WOMAN + + + May God be praised for woman + That gives up all her mind, + A man may find in no man + A friendship of her kind + That covers all he has brought + As with her flesh and bone, + Nor quarrels with a thought + Because it is not her own. + + Though pedantry denies + It's plain the Bible means + That Solomon grew wise + While talking with his queens. + Yet never could, although + They say he counted grass, + Count all the praises due + When Sheba was his lass, + When she the iron wrought, or + When from the smithy fire + It shuddered in the water: + Harshness of their desire + That made them stretch and yawn, + Pleasure that comes with sleep, + Shudder that made them one. + What else He give or keep + God grant me--no, not here, + For I am not so bold + To hope a thing so dear + Now I am growing old, + But when if the tale's true + The Pestle of the moon + That pounds up all anew + Brings me to birth again-- + To find what once I had + And know what once I have known, + Until I am driven mad, + Sleep driven from my bed, + By tenderness and care, + Pity, an aching head, + Gnashing of teeth, despair; + And all because of some one + Perverse creature of chance, + And live like Solomon + That Sheba led a dance. + + + + +THE FISHERMAN + + + Although I can see him still, + The freckled man who goes + To a grey place on a hill + In grey Connemara clothes + At dawn to cast his flies, + It's long since I began + To call up to the eyes + This wise and simple man. + All day I'd looked in the face + What I had hoped 'twould be + To write for my own race + And the reality; + The living men that I hate, + The dead man that I loved, + The craven man in his seat, + The insolent unreproved, + And no knave brought to book + Who has won a drunken cheer, + The witty man and his joke + Aimed at the commonest ear, + The clever man who cries + The catch-cries of the clown, + The beating down of the wise + And great Art beaten down. + + Maybe a twelvemonth since + Suddenly I began, + In scorn of this audience, + Imagining a man + And his sun-freckled face, + And grey Connemara cloth, + Climbing up to a place + Where stone is dark under froth, + And the down turn of his wrist + When the flies drop in the stream: + A man who does not exist, + A man who is but a dream; + And cried, 'Before I am old + I shall have written him one + Poem maybe as cold + And passionate as the dawn.' + + + + +THE HAWK + + + 'Call down the hawk from the air; + Let him be hooded or caged + Till the yellow eye has grown mild, + For larder and spit are bare, + The old cook enraged, + The scullion gone wild.' + + 'I will not be clapped in a hood, + Nor a cage, nor alight upon wrist, + Now I have learnt to be proud + Hovering over the wood + In the broken mist + Or tumbling cloud.' + + 'What tumbling cloud did you cleave, + Yellow-eyed hawk of the mind, + Last evening? that I, who had sat + Dumbfounded before a knave, + Should give to my friend + A pretence of wit.' + + + + +MEMORY + + + One had a lovely face, + And two or three had charm, + But charm and face were in vain + Because the mountain grass + Cannot but keep the form + Where the mountain hare has lain. + + + + +HER PRAISE + + + 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 + Or a young girl dressed out in her new gown, + And though I have turned the talk by hook or crook + Until her praise should be the uppermost theme, + A woman spoke of some new tale she had read, + A man confusedly in a half dream + As though some other name ran in his head. + She is foremost of those that I would hear praised. + I will talk no more of books or the long war + But walk by the dry thorn until I have found + Some beggar sheltering from the wind, and there + Manage the talk until her name come round. + If there be rags enough he will know her name + And be well pleased remembering it, for in the old days, + Though she had young men's praise and old men's blame, + Among the poor both old and young gave her praise. + + + + +THE PEOPLE + + + '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, + Where who has served the most is most defamed, + The reputation of his lifetime lost + Between the night and morning. I might have lived, + And you know well how great the longing has been, + Where every day my footfall should have lit + In the green shadow of Ferrara wall; + Or climbed among the images of the past-- + The unperturbed and courtly images-- + Evening and morning, the steep street of Urbino + To where the duchess and her people talked + The stately midnight through until they stood + In their great window looking at the dawn; + I might have had no friend that could not mix + Courtesy and passion into one like those + That saw the wicks grow yellow in the dawn; + I might have used the one substantial right + My trade allows: chosen my company, + And chosen what scenery had pleased me best.' + Thereon my phoenix answered in reproof, + 'The drunkards, pilferers of public funds, + All the dishonest crowd I had driven away, + When my luck changed and they dared meet my face, + Crawled from obscurity, and set upon me + Those I had served and some that I had fed; + Yet never have I, now nor any time, + Complained of the people.' + + All I could reply + Was: 'You, that have not lived in thought but deed, + Can have the purity of a natural force, + But I, whose virtues are the definitions + Of the analytic mind, can neither close + The eye of the mind nor keep my tongue from speech.' + And yet, because my heart leaped at her words, + I was abashed, and now they come to mind + After nine years, I sink my head abashed. + + + + +HIS PHOENIX + + + 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, + That she might be that sprightly girl who was trodden by a bird; + And there's a score of duchesses, surpassing womankind, + Or who have found a painter to make them so for pay + And smooth out stain and blemish with the elegance of his mind: + I knew a phoenix in my youth so let them have their day. + + The young men every night applaud their Gaby's laughing eye, + And Ruth St. Denis had more charm although she had poor luck, + From nineteen hundred nine or ten, Pavlova's had the cry, + And there's a player in the States who gathers up her cloak + And flings herself out of the room when Juliet would be bride + With all a woman's passion, a child's imperious way, + And there are--but no matter if there are scores beside: + I knew a phoenix in my youth so let them have their day. + + There's Margaret and Marjorie and Dorothy and Nan, + A Daphne and a Mary who live in privacy; + One's had her fill of lovers, another's had but one, + Another boasts, 'I pick and choose and have but two or three.' + If head and limb have beauty and the instep's high and light, + They can spread out what sail they please for all I have to say, + Be but the breakers of men's hearts or engines of delight: + I knew a phoenix in my youth so let them have their day. + + There'll be that crowd to make men wild through all the centuries, + And maybe there'll be some young belle walk out to make men wild + Who is my beauty's equal, though that my heart denies, + But not the exact likeness, the simplicity of a child, + And that proud look as though she had gazed into the burning sun, + And all the shapely body no tittle gone astray, + I mourn for that most lonely thing; and yet God's will be done, + I knew a phoenix in my youth so let them have their day. + + + + +A THOUGHT FROM PROPERTIUS + + + She might, so noble from head + To great shapely knees, + The long flowing line, + Have walked to the altar + Through the holy images + At Pallas Athene's side, + Or been fit spoil for a centaur + Drunk with the unmixed wine. + + + + +BROKEN DREAMS + + + There is grey in your hair. + Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath + When you are passing; + But maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing + Because it was your prayer + Recovered him upon the bed of death. + For your sole sake--that all heart's ache have known, + And given to others all heart's ache, + From meagre girlhood's putting on + Burdensome beauty--for your sole sake + Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom, + So great her portion in that peace you make + By merely walking in a room. + + Your beauty can but leave among us + Vague memories, nothing but memories. + A young man when the old men are done talking + Will say to an old man, 'Tell me of that lady + The poet stubborn with his passion sang us + When age might well have chilled his blood.' + + Vague memories, nothing but memories, + But in the grave all, all, shall be renewed. + The certainty that I shall see that lady + Leaning or standing or walking + In the first loveliness of womanhood, + And with the fervour of my youthful eyes, + Has set me muttering like a fool. + + You are more beautiful than any one + And yet your body had a flaw: + Your small hands were not beautiful, + And I am afraid that you will run + And paddle to the wrist + In that mysterious, always brimming lake + Where those that have obeyed the holy law + Paddle and are perfect; leave unchanged + The hands that I have kissed + For old sakes' sake. + + The last stroke of midnight dies. + All day in the one chair + From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged + In rambling talk with an image of air: + Vague memories, nothing but memories. + + + + +A DEEP-SWORN VOW + + + Others because you did not keep + That deep-sworn vow have been friends of mine; + Yet always when I look death in the face, + When I clamber to the heights of sleep, + Or when I grow excited with wine, + Suddenly I meet your face. + + + + +PRESENCES + + + 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 + That women laughing, or timid or wild, + In rustle of lace or silken stuff, + Climbed up my creaking stair. They had read + All I had rhymed of that monstrous thing + Returned and yet unrequited love. + They stood in the door and stood between + My great wood lecturn and the fire + Till I could hear their hearts beating: + One is a harlot, and one a child + That never looked upon man with desire, + And one it may be a queen. + + + + +THE BALLOON OF THE MIND + + + Hands, do what you're bid; + Bring the balloon of the mind + That bellies and drags in the wind + Into its narrow shed. + + + + +TO A SQUIRREL AT KYLE-NA-GNO + + + Come play with me; + Why should you run + Through the shaking tree + As though I'd a gun + To strike you dead? + When all I would do + Is to scratch your head + And let you go. + + + + +ON BEING ASKED FOR A WAR POEM + + + 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; + He has had enough of meddling who can please + A young girl in the indolence of her youth, + Or an old man upon a winter's night. + + + + +IN MEMORY OF ALFRED POLLEXFEN + + + Five-and-twenty years have gone + Since old William Pollexfen + Laid his strong bones down in death + By his wife Elizabeth + In the grey stone tomb he made. + And after twenty years they laid + In that tomb by him and her, + His son George, the astrologer; + And Masons drove from miles away + To scatter the Acacia spray + Upon a melancholy man + Who had ended where his breath began. + Many a son and daughter lies + Far from the customary skies, + The Mall and Eades's grammar school, + In London or in Liverpool; + But where is laid the sailor John? + That so many lands had known: + Quiet lands or unquiet seas + Where the Indians trade or Japanese. + He never found his rest ashore, + Moping for one voyage more. + Where have they laid the sailor John? + + And yesterday the youngest son, + A humorous, unambitious man, + Was buried near the astrologer; + And are we now in the tenth year? + Since he, who had been contented long, + A nobody in a great throng, + Decided he would journey home, + Now that his fiftieth year had come, + And 'Mr. Alfred' be again + Upon the lips of common men + Who carried in their memory + His childhood and his family. + At all these death-beds women heard + A visionary white sea-bird + Lamenting that a man should die; + And with that cry I have raised my cry. + + + + +UPON A DYING LADY + + +I + +HER COURTESY + + With the old kindness, the old distinguished grace + She lies, her lovely piteous head amid dull red hair + Propped upon pillows, rouge on the pallor of her face. + She would not have us sad because she is lying there, + And when she meets our gaze her eyes are laughter-lit, + Her speech a wicked tale that we may vie with her + Matching our broken-hearted wit against her wit, + Thinking of saints and of Petronius Arbiter. + + +II + +CERTAIN ARTISTS BRING HER DOLLS AND DRAWINGS + + Bring where our Beauty lies + A new modelled doll, or drawing, + With a friend's or an enemy's + Features, or maybe showing + Her features when a tress + Of dull red hair was flowing + Over some silken dress + Cut in the Turkish fashion, + Or it may be like a boy's. + We have given the world our passion + We have naught for death but toys. + + +III + +SHE TURNS THE DOLLS' FACES TO THE WALL + + Because to-day is some religious festival + They had a priest say Mass, and even the Japanese, + Heel up and weight on toe, must face the wall + --Pedant in passion, learned in old courtesies, + Vehement and witty she had seemed--; the Venetian lady + Who had seemed to glide to some intrigue in her red shoes, + Her domino, her panniered skirt copied from Longhi; + The meditative critic; all are on their toes, + Even our Beauty with her Turkish trousers on. + Because the priest must have like every dog his day + Or keep us all awake with baying at the moon, + We and our dolls being but the world were best away. + + +IV + +THE END OF DAY + + She is playing like a child + And penance is the play, + Fantastical and wild + Because the end of day + Shows her that some one soon + Will come from the house, and say-- + Though play is but half-done-- + 'Come in and leave the play.'-- + + +V + +HER RACE + + She has not grown uncivil + As narrow natures would + And called the pleasures evil + Happier days thought good; + She knows herself a woman + No red and white of a face, + Or rank, raised from a common + Unreckonable race; + And how should her heart fail her + Or sickness break her will + With her dead brother's valour + For an example still. + + +VI + +HER COURAGE + + When her soul flies to the predestined dancing-place + (I have no speech but symbol, the pagan speech I made + Amid the dreams of youth) let her come face to face, + While wondering still to be a shade, with Grania's shade + All but the perils of the woodland flight forgot + That made her Dermuid dear, and some old cardinal + Pacing with half-closed eyelids in a sunny spot + Who had murmured of Giorgione at his latest breath-- + Aye and Achilles, Timor, Babar, Barhaim, all + Who have lived in joy and laughed into the face of Death. + + +VII + +HER FRIENDS BRING HER A CHRISTMAS TREE + + Pardon, great enemy, + Without an angry thought + We've carried in our tree, + And here and there have bought + Till all the boughs are gay, + And she may look from the bed + On pretty things that may + Please a fantastic head. + Give her a little grace, + What if a laughing eye + Have looked into your face-- + It is about to die. + + + + +EGO DOMINUS TUUS + + +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 +That Michael Robartes left, you walk in the moon +And though you have passed the best of life still trace +Enthralled by the unconquerable delusion +Magical shapes. + +ILLE + + By the help of an image +I call to my own opposite, summon all +That I have handled least, least looked upon. + +HIC + +And I would find myself and not an image. + +ILLE + +That is our modern hope and by its light +We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind +And 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. + +HIC + + And yet +The chief imagination of Christendom +Dante Alighieri so utterly found himself +That he has made that hollow face of his +More plain to the mind's eye than any face +But that of Christ. + +ILLE + + And did he find himself, +Or was the hunger that had made it hollow +A hunger for the apple on the bough +Most out of reach? and is that spectral image +The man that Lapo and that Guido knew? +I think he fashioned from his opposite +An image that might have been a stony face, +Staring upon a bedouin's horse-hair roof +From doored and windowed cliff, or half upturned +Among the coarse grass and the camel dung. +He set his chisel to the hardest stone. +Being mocked by Guido for his lecherous life, +Derided and deriding, driven out +To climb that stair and eat that bitter bread, +He found the unpersuadable justice, he found +The most exalted lady loved by a man. + +HIC + +Yet surely there are men who have made their art +Out of no tragic war, lovers of life, +Impulsive men that look for happiness +And sing when they have found it. + +ILLE + + No, not sing, +For those that love the world serve it in action, +Grow rich, popular and full of influence, +And should they paint or write still it is action: +The struggle of the fly in marmalade. +The rhetorician would deceive his neighbours, +The sentimentalist himself; while art +Is but a vision of reality. +What portion in the world can the artist have +Who has awakened from the common dream +But dissipation and despair? + +HIC + + And yet +No one denies to Keats love of the world; +Remember his deliberate happiness. + +ILLE + +His art is happy but who knows his mind? +I see a schoolboy when I think of him, +With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window, +For certainly he sank into his grave +His senses and his heart unsatisfied, +And made--being poor, ailing and ignorant, +Shut out from all the luxury of the world, +The coarse-bred son of a livery stable-keeper-- +Luxuriant song. + +HIC + + Why should you leave the lamp +Burning alone beside an open book, +And trace these characters upon the sands; +A style is found by sedentary toil +And by the imitation of great masters. + +ILLE + +Because I seek an image, not a book. +Those men that in their writings are most wise +Own nothing but their blind, stupefied hearts. +I call to the mysterious one who yet +Shall walk the wet sands by the edge of the stream +And look most like me, being indeed my double, +And prove of all imaginable things +The most unlike, being my anti-self, +And standing by these characters disclose +All that I seek; and whisper it as though +He were afraid the birds, who cry aloud +Their momentary cries before it is dawn, +Would carry it away to blasphemous men. + + + + +A PRAYER ON GOING INTO MY HOUSE + + + 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 + For shepherd lads in Galilee; and grant + That I myself for portions of the year + May handle nothing and set eyes on nothing + But what the great and passionate have used + Throughout so many varying centuries. + We take it for the norm; yet should I dream + Sinbad the sailor's brought a painted chest, + Or image, from beyond the Loadstone Mountain + That dream is a norm; and should some limb of the devil + Destroy the view by cutting down an ash + That shades the road, or setting up a cottage + Planned in a government office, shorten his life, + Manacle his soul upon the Red Sea bottom. + + + + +THE PHASES OF THE MOON + + +_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, +Their Connemara cloth worn out of shape; +They had kept a steady pace as though their beds, +Despite a dwindling and late risen moon, +Were distant. An old man cocked his ear._ + +AHERNE + +What made that sound? + +ROBARTES + + A rat or water-hen +Splashed, or an otter slid into the stream. +We are on the bridge; that shadow is the tower, +And the light proves that he is reading still. +He has found, after the manner of his kind, +Mere images; chosen this place to live in +Because, it may be, of the candle light +From the far tower where Milton's platonist +Sat late, or Shelley's visionary prince: +The lonely light that Samuel Palmer engraved, +An image of mysterious wisdom won by toil; +And now he seeks in book or manuscript +What he shall never find. + +AHERNE + + Why should not you +Who know it all ring at his door, and speak +Just truth enough to show that his whole life +Will scarcely find for him a broken crust +Of all those truths that are your daily bread; +And when you have spoken take the roads again? + +ROBARTES + +He wrote of me in that extravagant style +He had learnt from Pater, and to round his tale +Said I was dead; and dead I chose to be. + +AHERNE + +Sing me the changes of the moon once more; +True song, though speech: 'mine author sung it me.' + +ROBARTES + +Twenty-and-eight the phases of the moon, +The full and the moon's dark and all the crescents, +Twenty-and-eight, and yet but six-and-twenty +The cradles that a man must needs be rocked in: +For there's no human life at the full or the dark. +From the first crescent to the half, the dream +But summons to adventure and the man +Is always happy like a bird or a beast; +But while the moon is rounding towards the full +He follows whatever whim's most difficult +Among whims not impossible, and though scarred +As with the cat-o'-nine-tails of the mind, +His body moulded from within his body +Grows comelier. Eleven pass, and then +Athenae takes Achilles by the hair, +Hector is in the dust, Nietzsche is born, +Because the heroes' crescent is the twelfth. +And yet, twice born, twice buried, grow he must, +Before the full moon, helpless as a worm. +The thirteenth moon but sets the soul at war +In its own being, and when that war's begun +There is no muscle in the arm; and after +Under the frenzy of the fourteenth moon +The soul begins to tremble into stillness, +To die into the labyrinth of itself! + +AHERNE + +Sing out the song; sing to the end, and sing +The strange reward of all that discipline. + +ROBARTES + +All thought becomes an image and the soul +Becomes a body: that body and that soul +Too perfect at the full to lie in a cradle, +Too lonely for the traffic of the world: +Body and soul cast out and cast away +Beyond the visible world. + +AHERNE + + All dreams of the soul +End in a beautiful man's or woman's body. + +ROBARTES + +Have you not always known it? + +AHERNE + + The song will have it +That those that we have loved got their long fingers +From death, and wounds, or on Sinai's top, +Or from some bloody whip in their own hands. +They ran from cradle to cradle till at last +Their beauty dropped out of the loneliness +Of body and soul. + +ROBARTES + + The lovers' heart knows that. + +AHERNE + +It must be that the terror in their eyes +Is memory or foreknowledge of the hour +When all is fed with light and heaven is bare. + +ROBARTES + +When the moon's full those creatures of the full +Are met on the waste hills by country men +Who shudder and hurry by: body and soul +Estranged amid the strangeness of themselves, +Caught up in contemplation, the mind's eye +Fixed upon images that once were thought, +For separate, perfect, and immovable +Images can break the solitude +Of lovely, satisfied, indifferent eyes. + +_And thereupon with aged, high-pitched voice +Aherne laughed, thinking of the man within, +His sleepless candle and laborious pen._ + +ROBARTES + +And after that the crumbling of the moon. +The soul remembering its loneliness +Shudders in many cradles; all is changed, +It would be the World's servant, and as it serves, +Choosing whatever task's most difficult +Among tasks not impossible, it takes +Upon the body and upon the soul +The coarseness of the drudge. + +AHERNE + + Before the full +It sought itself and afterwards the world. + +ROBARTES + +Because you are forgotten, half out of life, +And never wrote a book your thought is clear. +Reformer, merchant, statesman, learned man, +Dutiful husband, honest wife by turn, +Cradle upon cradle, and all in flight and all +Deformed because there is no deformity +But saves us from a dream. + +AHERNE + + And what of those +That the last servile crescent has set free? + +ROBARTES + +Because all dark, like those that are all light, +They are cast beyond the verge, and in a cloud, +Crying to one another like the bats; +And having no desire they cannot tell +What's good or bad, or what it is to triumph +At the perfection of one's own obedience; +And yet they speak what's blown into the mind; +Deformed beyond deformity, unformed, +Insipid as the dough before it is baked, +They change their bodies at a word. + +AHERNE + + And then? + +ROBARTES + +When all the dough has been so kneaded up +That it can take what form cook Nature fancy +The first thin crescent is wheeled round once more. + +AHERNE + +But the escape; the song's not finished yet. + +ROBARTES + +Hunchback and saint and fool are the last crescents. +The burning bow that once could shoot an arrow +Out of the up and down, the wagon wheel +Of beauty's cruelty and wisdom's chatter, +Out of that raving tide is drawn betwixt +Deformity of body and of mind. + +AHERNE + +Were not our beds far off I'd ring the bell, +Stand under the rough roof-timbers of the hall +Beside the castle door, where all is stark +Austerity, a place set out for wisdom +That he will never find; I'd play a part; +He would never know me after all these years +But take me for some drunken country man; +I'd stand and mutter there until he caught +'Hunchback and saint and fool,' and that they came +Under the three last crescents of the moon, +And then I'd stagger out. He'd crack his wits +Day after day, yet never find the meaning. + +_And then he laughed to think that what seemed hard +Should be so simple--a bat rose from the hazels +And circled round him with its squeaky cry, +The light in the tower window was put out._ + + + + +THE CAT AND THE MOON + + + The cat went here and there + And the moon spun round like a top, + And the nearest kin of the moon + The creeping cat looked up. + Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon, + For wander and wail as he would + The pure cold light in the sky + Troubled his animal blood. + Minnaloushe runs in the grass, + Lifting his delicate feet. + Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance? + When two close kindred meet + What better than call a dance, + Maybe the moon may learn, + Tired of that courtly fashion, + A new dance turn. + Minnaloushe creeps through the grass + From moonlit place to place, + The sacred moon overhead + Has taken a new phase. + Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils + Will pass from change to change, + And that from round to crescent, + From crescent to round they range? + Minnaloushe creeps through the grass + Alone, important and wise, + And lifts to the changing moon + His changing eyes. + + + + +THE SAINT AND THE HUNCHBACK + + +HUNCHBACK + +Stand up and lift your hand and bless +A man that finds great bitterness +In thinking of his lost renown. +A Roman Caesar is held down +Under this hump. + +SAINT + + God tries each man +According to a different plan. +I shall not cease to bless because +I lay about me with the taws +That night and morning I may thrash +Greek Alexander from my flesh, +Augustus Caesar, and after these +That great rogue Alcibiades. + +HUNCHBACK + +To all that in your flesh have stood +And blessed, I give my gratitude, +Honoured by all in their degrees, +But most to Alcibiades. + + + + +TWO SONGS OF A FOOL + + +I + + A speckled cat and a tame hare + Eat at my hearthstone + And sleep there; + And both look up to me alone + For learning and defence + As I look up to Providence. + + I start out of my sleep to think + Some day I may forget + Their food and drink; + Or, the house door left unshut, + The hare may run till it's found + The horn's sweet note and the tooth of the hound. + + I bear a burden that might well try + Men that do all by rule, + And what can I + That am a wandering witted fool + But pray to God that He ease + My great responsibilities. + + +II + + I slept on my three-legged stool by the fire, + The speckled cat slept on my knee; + We never thought to enquire + Where the brown hare might be, + And whether the door were shut. + Who knows how she drank the wind + Stretched up on two legs from the mat, + Before she had settled her mind + To drum with her heel and to leap: + Had I but awakened from sleep + And called her name she had heard, + It may be, and had not stirred, + That now, it may be, has found + The horn's sweet note and the tooth of the hound. + + + + +ANOTHER SONG OF A FOOL + + + This great purple butterfly, + In the prison of my hands, + Has a learning in his eye + Not a poor fool understands. + + Once he lived a schoolmaster + With a stark, denying look, + A string of scholars went in fear + Of his great birch and his great book. + + Like the clangour of a bell, + Sweet and harsh, harsh and sweet, + That is how he learnt so well + To take the roses for his meat. + + + + +THE DOUBLE VISION OF MICHAEL ROBARTES + + +I + + 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 + And the new still hides her horn. + + Under blank eyes and fingers never still + The particular is pounded till it is man, + When had I my own will? + Oh, not since life began. + + Constrained, arraigned, baffled, bent and unbent + By these wire-jointed jaws and limbs of wood, + Themselves obedient, + Knowing not evil and good; + + Obedient to some hidden magical breath. + They do not even feel, so abstract are they, + So dead beyond our death, + Triumph that we obey. + + +II + + On the grey rock of Cashel I suddenly saw + A Sphinx with woman breast and lion paw, + A Buddha, hand at rest, + Hand lifted up that blest; + + And right between these two a girl at play + That it may be had danced her life away, + For now being dead it seemed + That she of dancing dreamed. + + Although I saw it all in the mind's eye + There can be nothing solider till I die; + I saw by the moon's light + Now at its fifteenth night. + + One lashed her tail; her eyes lit by the moon + Gazed upon all things known, all things unknown, + In triumph of intellect + With motionless head erect. + + That other's moonlit eyeballs never moved, + Being fixed on all things loved, all things unloved, + Yet little peace he had + For those that love are sad. + + Oh, little did they care who danced between, + And little she by whom her dance was seen + So that she danced. No thought, + Body perfection brought, + + For what but eye and ear silence the mind + With the minute particulars of mankind? + Mind moved yet seemed to stop + As 'twere a spinning-top. + + In contemplation had those three so wrought + Upon a moment, and so stretched it out + That they, time overthrown, + Were dead yet flesh and bone. + + +III + + I knew that I had seen, had seen at last + That girl my unremembering nights hold fast + Or else my dreams that fly, + If I should rub an eye, + + And yet in flying fling into my meat + A crazy juice that makes the pulses beat + As though I had been undone + By Homer's Paragon + + Who never gave the burning town a thought; + To such a pitch of folly I am brought, + Being caught between the pull + Of the dark moon and the full, + + The commonness of thought and images + That have the frenzy of our Western seas. + Thereon I made my moan, + And after kissed a stone, + + And after that arranged it in a song + Seeing that I, ignorant for so long, + Had been rewarded thus + In Cormac's ruined house. + + + + +NOTE + + +"_Unpack the loaded pern_," p. 36. + +When I was a child at Sligo I could see above my grandfather's trees a +little column of smoke from "the pern mill," and was told that "pern" +was another name for the spool, as I was accustomed to call it, on which +thread was wound. One could not see the chimney for the trees, and the +smoke looked as if it came from the mountain, and one day a foreign +sea-captain asked me if that was a burning mountain. + +W. B. Y. + +Printed in the United States of America. + + +--------------------------------------------------------------+ + | Transcriber's Note | + | | + | Page 64: "lecturn" _sic_--alternative spelling confirmed. | + +--------------------------------------------------------------+ + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wild Swans at Coole, by +William Butler (W.B.) 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