William Butler Yeats: Poems

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) was born in Dublin, but grew up in County Sligo, where he learned a great deal about peasant folklore. “Religious by temperament but unable to believe in Christian orthodoxy,” he “sought all his life to compensate for his lost religion,” turning to “various kinds of mysticism, to folklore, theosophy, spiritualism, and neoplatonism. He said he had ‘made a new religion, almost an infallible church of poetic tradition'” 2019. In London in the 1890s, Yeats adopted a Pre-Raphaelite belief in the dreamy, evocative tone of poetry and in symbolism and the occult. Finally, in Dublin, “where he founded the National Literary Society, he was influenced by Irish nationalism,” and saw poetry as potentially reinvigorating to Irish culture, even if he did not think it should explicitly serve political ends.

Yeats began as a self-conscious Romantic, influenced by Spenser, Shelley, and Blake. He called “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” his “first lyric with anything in its rhythm of my own music” 2020. He created hybrids of British and Irish tradition, reclaiming and reimagining Irish space, but also “insisting on the trandnationalism of the collective storehouse of images he calls ‘Spiritus Mundi’ or ‘Anima Mundi’… cross-pollinating forms, ideas, and images from Ireland and England, Europe and Asia” 2020. An early interest in Irish nationalism led Yeats to the simple, concrete image, free of cliche and abstraction.

In his middle period, at the turn of the century, Yeats attempted a more holistic aesthetic, combining passion and reason, the colloquial and the formal, a “will to leave behind the poetic ’embroideries’ of his youth and walk ‘naked” 2020. (Ezra Pound wintered with Yeats from 1913-16 and encouraged a stripped-down style.) He preferred the working classes and the aristocracy to the middle class for their traditions. Yeats founded the Abbey theatre in 1904 under Lady Gregory’s influence. He wanted to bring the two religious halves (Protestant and Catholic) together, but was abandoned by both sides and moved to England. In 1916, the Easter Rising drew Yeats back to Ireland. Torn between two political experiences, much of Yeats’ poetry “mediates between contending aspects of himself – late Romantic visionary and astringent modern skeptic, Irish patriot and irreverent antinationalist, shrewd man of action and esoteric dreamer. As he said, ‘We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry” 2021.

After marrying in 1917, he wrote prolifically, namely A Vision (1925), which he believed dictated by spirits and which held a theory of the movements of history and personality as dictated by phases of the moon. “At the center of the symbolic system were the interpenetrating cones, or ‘gyres,’ that represented movement through major cycles of history and across antitheses of human personality” 2021. In the later poems of the 20s and 30s, spirals, staircases, gyres, and tops allowed Yeats to explore what he had seen as contradictions as continuities. Yeats believed, like Robartes, that “The mind, whether expressed in history or in the individual life, has a precise movement, which can be quickened or slackened but cannot be fundamentally altered, and this movement can be expressed by a mathematical form, and this form is the gyre.” They gyre can be pictured as a single structure, widening and then narrowing back on itself, but the concatenated double-gyre is more often used in portrayals of Yeats’ theory, since his thought in many ways was fundamentally dualistic. Yeats called this “the Diamond and the Hourglass.” Much of the raw style he had cut from early work as ‘unpoetic’ appears in later poems, which focus on the mortal world as imbricated with the visionary one. (He was also influenced by Nietzsche, who led him to consider ruin as a key to creativity.) In some ways, this later work returns to the early through its spiritualism, but it remains more bodily and grounded, an influence of his middle period.

Formally, Yeats is both “a literary traditionalist, working within such inherited genres as love poetry, the elegy, the self-elegy, the sonnet, and the occasional poem on public themes. But he is also a restless innovator who disrupts generic conventions, breaking up the coherence of the sonnet, deidealizing the dead mourned in elegies, and bringing into public poems an intense personal ambivalence” 2022. Yeats’ idealization of feudal society and opposition to colonialism and the bourgeoisie led him toward authoritarianism and fascism toward the end of his life. Finally he was “appalled by all political ideologies” 2022. “Man can embody truth but he cannot know it,” Yeats said late in life of his poetry.

THE ROSE (1893)


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 honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Typical of Yeats’ early style, influenced by peasant folklore, the poem employs a more cumbersome reversed syntax and stylistic tropes like the lovely kenning “bee-loud glade” in the first stanza. In the second stanza, peace, an abstraction, drops from the morning, and the different times of day are made magical and symbolic. The final stanza seems to return the viewer to the actual space of experience, in the urban setting of London. The overall tone of the poem is characterized by longing and resolve – I will arise and go now, shall have, etc., perhaps to emphasize the dreamy, reparative work the symbolic Ireland has on the heart.


“ADAM’S CURSE,” 1902

We sat together at one summer’s end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, ‘A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.’
                                          And thereupon
That beautiful mild woman for whose sake
There’s many a one shall find out all heartache
On finding that her voice is sweet and low
Replied, ‘To be born woman is to know—
Although they do not talk of it at school—
That we must labour to be beautiful.’
I said, ‘It’s certain there is no fine thing
Since Adam’s fall but needs much labouring.
There have been lovers who thought love should be
So much compounded of high courtesy
That they would sigh and quote with learned looks
Precedents out of beautiful old books;
Yet now it seems an idle trade enough.’
We sat grown quiet at the name of love;
We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time’s waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.
I had a thought for no one’s but your ears:
That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love;
That it had all seemed happy, and yet we’d grown
As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.
Written about Maud and Kathleen Gonne, “Adam’s Curse” suggests that the artist’s invisible labor is parallel to that of the woman and the lover. Particularly, the domesticating image of “A line will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought, Our stitching and unstitching has been naught” connects this labor to the requisite effortlessness of hostessing and home-managing, but also the mystical work of the Fates, three women. Thus this invisible work is also that of the continuity of time – an important theme in Yeats’ poetry. The speaker laments that this work is undervalued by “bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen,” but Maud (?) sighs that beauty is labor, to which the speaker replies that all “fine things” after Adam’s fall do. This includes love, and as they consider the idea, the moon itself, that symbol of love, seems to break, and the poem ends with a desire “To love you in the old high way of love,” though “we’d grown as weary-hearted as that hollow moon.” Strangely, the speaker’s desire to particularize the difficulty of the poet but to generalize the difficulty of womanhood back into the realm of love in general acts as a bizarre ownership of the realm of taste, as well as a blindness to his own metaphors of domesticity.


“A COAT,” 1914

I MADE my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world’s eyes
As though they’d wrought it.
Song, let them take it,
For there’s more enterprise
In walking naked.

The first line, “I made my song a coat” abuts the two objects, song and coat, as predicates. In covering the poem “with embroideries/ out of old mythologies/ from heel to throat,” Yeats crafts an image of his earlier work, festooned with mythology as ornament, from beginning to end. The “fools caught it,/ Wore it in the world’s eyes/ As though they’d wrought it,” the speaker complains. This reminds me of the story of Joseph and the many-colored coat in the Bible, where Joseph has 2 dreams of leadership that, in addition to the gift of the coat, make his brothers envious, so they sell Jacob, naked, for 20 pieces of silver, dip his coat in blood, and tell their father he has died. In the final sentence, the poet addresses poetry itself with an apostrophe: “Song, let them take it,” he says, “For there’s more enterprise/ In walking naked.” Again, the presence of the word “enterprise,” as well as the image of the “naked” poet, stripped bare but retaining what is essential to him, is reminiscent of the story of Joseph. Perhaps Yeats saw the visionary act of poetry as something that engendered fear and jealousy in others, though this poem could also be simply about Yeats’ transition out of a phase of more symbolic work and into a more material, stripped-down era, one Ezra Pound encouraged in this period (1909-1913 or so). Yeats also maintains an interest in patchwork in “Easter 1916,” where someone wears “motley,” the patchwork of a jester.



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?
Like Keats’ “Ode to a Nightingale” and Hardy’s “The Darkling Thrush,” birds serve as an epistemological point of cathexis for Yeats in “The Wild Swans at Coole.” The speaker marks 19 years since his last visit to Coole in 1897, and reflects that while “nine-and-fifty swans” (why this number? and did he count them?) still look “Unwearied still, lover by lover,” the speaker’s “heart is sore” because “all’s changed since” he heard their wings and “trod with a lighter tread.” The birds can “paddle in the cold/ Companionable streams or climb the air; their hearts have not grown old,” he claims. Like Keats, then, the speaker looks on the birds more as symbols in their continuity than as particular beings, though there is certainly an irony in the odd number of birds, leaving one of them unpaired. The poem also seems to speak to Wordsworth’s daffodils – the reminiscence of nature in past experience brings the speaker pain here, rather than solace.


“EASTER, 1916,” 1916

I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman’s days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our wingèd horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone’s in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven’s part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse—
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
The beginning of the poem, “I have met them…” reminds me of Eliot’s “Prufrock” – “and I have seen them…” The speaker refers to the Irish nationalists who held a 6-day revolt against the English in Dublin beginning on Easter Monday, April 24, 1916. Many of them were killed, especially the leaders, several of whom Yeats knew. In the seemingly routine and meaningless exchanges of the first stanza, the speaker detects “a terrible beauty,” a new power and struggle; Yeats was both passionately nationalist and wary and critical of Irish revolt. The second stanza refers to Countess Markievicz, Padriac Perse, and Thomas MacDonagh, various participatory culturalists of Dublin, as well as John MacBride, Maud Gonne’s estranged husband. The speaker reiterates: “A terrible beauty is born.” In the third stanza, the group seems enchanted to a stone – a sort of magical, unspoken pagan ritual of constant change, with one constant at the center of the wheel. In the final stanza, Yeats worries about the “stone” that may become the heart of Ireland after so much pain, English deceit, and sacrifice, as well as violence. He concludes by repeating once more: “A terrible beauty is born,” a line which resonates powerfully with “The Second Coming”‘s “What rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?” The poem has 4 stanzas (April), alternating 16 lines / 24 lines / 16 lines / 24 lines, mimicking the year (1916) and the day (the 24th) of the uprising. The poem was edited over the summer and again in 1920.


Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

The poem was written after World War I and the Bolshevik Revolution, as the stirrings of the Anglo-Irish war intensified. It is perhaps the clearest expression of Yeats’ historical theory of the gyre, a series of interlocking cones which meet as one historical cycle closes and another is at its peak. Yeats believed that one 2,000-year cycle had begun with the birth of Christ, and the time for the next was therefore nigh upon the 20th century. “The ceremony of innocence” may be religion or simply the facade of society, and it is thought that perhaps Yeats’ fondness for the feudal system, with its historical roots and rituals, is implied in “the best [the aristocracy] lack all conviction, while the worst [the lower classes]/ Are full of passionate intensity.” The invocation of “surely” twice seems to suggest a desire for revelation, for the arrival of Christ; instead, an image appears – a vision, almost a hallucination in the desert – of the rough sphinxlike beast “slouching towards Bethlehem to be born.” As the poem ends in an uncertain question, the birds that circle over the creature seem poised to eat the spoils of the Christian era.


The poem, rather long to reproduce here, posits the speaker looking at his firstborn child sleeping through a howling storm. He is “Imagining in excited reverie/ That the future years had come,/ Dancing to a frenzied drum,/ Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.” Thus vision arrives in the same eerie way so many of Yeats’ visions do, even when concerned with the personal fate of his child. “May she be granted beauty and yet not…” he begins. He is concerned that if she is too beautiful she will “make a stranger’s eye distraught” or herself “Consider beauty a sufficient end.” He thinks of women who have suffered for beauty and wishes instead that she “live like some green laurel/ Rooted in one dear perpetual place” (the eerie thing here is how reminiscent this is of Daphne turning into a laurel in Ovid when her brother tries to rape her…) “An intellectual hatred is the worst,/ So let her think opinions are accursed.” Still fixated on Maud Gonne, he critiques her losses as based on her opinionated nature. “And may her bridegroom bring her to a house/ Where all’s accustomed, ceremonious…/How but in custom and in ceremony/ Are innocence and beauty born?/ Ceremony’s a name for the rich horn,/ And custom for the spreading laurel tree.” Something about old-world society and tradition still have the greatest values in Yeats’ highly gendered hopes for his daughter.

THE TOWER (1928)


That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

Yeats idealized the world of Byantium in the 6th century C.E. In A Vision, he writes: “I think that in early Byzantium, maybe never before or since in recorded history, religious, aesthetic, and practical life were one, that architect and artificers… spoke to the multitude and the few alike… almost impersonal, almost perhaps without the consciousness of individual design, absorbed in their subject matter and that the vision of a whole people.” The poem has 4 stanzas, each of 8 lines. Each octet holds the rhyme scheme abababcc. The space of Byzantium is frozen in time, almost like the world of Keats’ Grecian Urn – it is ageless, full of food and life, with unageing monuments (all ironic, of course, since all has disappeared). In the second stanza, we get a sharp comparison of that world with the modern one, which once again invokes the image of a tattered coat and of old age (“an aged man is but a paltry thing,/ A tattered coat upon a stick”), and “therefore I have sailed the seas and come/ To the holy city of Byzantium.” In the third stanza, the religious dream of purity by fire is united with the aesthetic representation of gold-leaf mosaic (Yeats visited Ravenna in 1907), and he feels them “perne in a gyre,” or whirl in the spiral of history toward him, to “be the singing-masters of my soul.” His thick desire to be subsumed: “Consume my heart away; sick with desire… Into the artifice of eternity” rings with sadness and nostalgia. In the final stanza, the speaker vows that when he loses his body, he will not take a natural form again, but a hammered-metal body of a bird like Grecian sculptor would make “To keep a drowsy Emperor awake/ Or set upon a golden bough to sing/ To lords and ladies of Byzantium/ Of what is past, or passing, or to come.” The interchangeability of this role reaffirms the unity of aesthetic vision Yeats sees in this period – he can visually keep an emperor awake or sing as a poet – thus form and content unite in the ageless, frozen moment of “what is past, or passing, or to come. In this sense, too, Yeats enacts the timelessness of aesthetics, both by invoking and viscerally portraying Byzantium, but also by tying his poem to Keats and other poets of the past, and by providing nuances that gesture towards a poetic future. His friend Sturge Moore critiqued the idea that “a bird made by a goldsmith was just as natural as anything else,” so he wrote “Byzantium” as “an exposition” on that idea.

“LEDA & THE SWAN,” 1923

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,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
                                  Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
This poem is almost a sonnet (abab, cdcd, efef, gg) – instead it is abab cdcd efgefg, combining the octet fromt the English sonnet with the volta from the Italian sonnet (a break that also connects the English-speaking and Greco-Roman worlds of tradition). It also strains against rhyme scheme, especially in the second part, and has a line break of “And Agamemnon dead./ Being so caught up,” disrupting the order of the poem and drawing attention to the rupture of history that will occur/is already somehow occurring in the moment. The nameless “blow” foists responsibility or agency off of Zeus – this is not so much an exposition of the rape, though the imagery is violent, as it is a meditation on the violence of history, even, perhaps, its fatedness. Like “The Second Coming,” the “engendering” here initiates a key cycle of history, and like that poem, too, it ends in a question. In fact, at the other end of the Christian gyre of history, Yeats himself compared this “annunciation” to that of Gabriel and Mary, though the immaculate conception is certainly a less dramatizable event than the rape of Leda. I love the thought that she might “put on his knowledge with his power/ Before the indifferent beak could let her drop,” a question that would be interesting to pursue in terms of the pregancy that results – the twins Castor and Pollux, as well as Clytemnestra and Helen of Troy, born of two separate eggs from the night she lay with Zeus and her husband king.

“NINETEEN HUNDRED AND NINETEEN,” actually written 1922 or later?

The poem, quite long, bemoans losses: “Many ingenious lovely things are gone/ That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude” – idols, toys, decency, justice: “We pieced our thoughts into philosophy,/ And planned to bring the world under a rule,/ Who are but weasels fighting in a hole.” “Man is in love and loves what vanishes.” “Some moralist or mythological poet/ Compares the solitary soul to a swan;/ I am satisfied with that,/ Satisfied if a troubled mirror show it,/ Before that brief gleam of its life be gone.” “We who, seven years ago/ Talked of honour and of truth,/ Shriek with pleasure if we show/ The weasel’s twist, the weasel’s tooth.”  The speaker enjoins us to mock the great, the wise, the good, and the mockers: “for we/ Traffic in mockery.”


I walk through the long schoolroom questioning;
A kind old nun in a white hood replies;
The children learn to cipher and to sing,
To study reading-books and histories,
To cut and sew, be neat in everything
In the best modern way — the children’s eyes
In momentary wonder stare upon
A sixty-year-old smiling public man.

I dream of a Ledaean body, bent
Above a sinking fire, a tale that she
Told of a harsh reproof, or trivial event
That changed some childish day to tragedy —
Told, and it seemed that our two natures blent
Into a sphere from youthful sympathy,
Or else, to alter Plato’s parable,
Into the yolk and white of the one shell.

And thinking of that fit of grief or rage
I look upon one child or t’other there
And wonder if she stood so at that age —
For even daughters of the swan can share
Something of every paddler’s heritage —
And had that colour upon cheek or hair,
And thereupon my heart is driven wild:
She stands before me as a living child.

Her present image floats into the mind —
Did Quattrocento finger fashion it
Hollow of cheek as though it drank the wind
And took a mess of shadows for its meat?
And I though never of Ledaean kind
Had pretty plumage once — enough of that,
Better to smile on all that smile, and show
There is a comfortable kind of old scarecrow.

What youthful mother, a shape upon her lap
Honey of generation had betrayed,
And that must sleep, shriek, struggle to escape
As recollection or the drug decide,
Would think her Son, did she but see that shape
With sixty or more winters on its head,
A compensation for the pang of his birth,
Or the uncertainty of his setting forth?

Plato thought nature but a spume that plays
Upon a ghostly paradigm of things;
Solider Aristotle played the taws
Upon the bottom of a king of kings;
World-famous golden-thighed Pythagoras
Fingered upon a fiddle-stick or strings
What a star sang and careless Muses heard:
Old clothes upon old sticks to scare a bird.

Both nuns and mothers worship images,
But those the candles light are not as those
That animate a mother’s reveries,
But keep a marble or a bronze repose.
And yet they too break hearts — O presences
That passion, piety or affection knows,
And that all heavenly glory symbolise —
O self-born mockers of man’s enterprise;

Labour is blossoming or dancing where
The body is not bruised to pleasure soul.
Nor beauty born out of its own despair,
Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil.
O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?

Remarkable for Yeats’ interest in genealogy, mythology and folklore in the material bodies of the children, the references to Platonic and Aristotelian ideas about phenomenology and love unions, and ending with the famous aesthetic query, “How can we know the dancer from  the dance?” – in a perverse way, a precursor to Marshall McLuhan’s “the medium is the message.”



THE unpurged images of day recede;
The Emperor’s drunken soldiery are abed;
Night resonance recedes, night walkers’ song
After great cathedral gong;
A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains
All that man is,
All mere complexities,
The fury and the mire of human veins.

Before me floats an image, man or shade,
Shade more than man, more image than a shade;
For Hades’ bobbin bound in mummy-cloth
May unwind the winding path;
A mouth that has no moisture and no breath
Breathless mouths may summon;
I hail the superhuman;
I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.

Miracle, bird or golden handiwork,
More miraclc than bird or handiwork,
Planted on the star-lit golden bough,
Can like the cocks of Hades crow,
Or, by the moon embittered, scorn aloud
In glory of changeless metal
Common bird or petal
And all complexities of mire or blood.

At midnight on the Emperor’s pavement flit
Flames that no faggot feeds, nor steel has lit,
Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame,
Where blood-begotten spirits come
And all complexities of fury leave,
Dying into a dance,
An agony of trance,
An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve.

Astraddle on the dolphin’s mire and blood,
Spirit after Spirit! The smithies break the flood.
The golden smithies of the Emperor!
Marbles of the dancing floor
Break bitter furies of complexity,
Those images that yet
Fresh images beget,
That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea.

As previously mentioned, Yeats’ friend Sturge Moore critiqued the idea in “Sailing to Byzantium” that “a bird made by a goldsmith was just as natural as anything else,” so Yeats wrote “Byzantium” as “an exposition” on that idea. This “exposition” seems to fix again on the eternal nature of artifice – as flame that does not burn,” and “those images that yet/ Fresh images beget” – an artistic tradition that culminates with dolphins (who would carry the dead to the Isles of the Blessed) and gong-tormented sea (reference again to that ceremony that Yeats so values?). The repetition of complexities is interesting too – first as men who are “mere complexities” (recall the “mere anarchy” of “The Second Coming”) then as aesthetic miracle and release.


I met the Bishop on the road
And much said he and I.
‘Those breasts are flat and fallen now,
Those veins must soon be dry;
Live in a heavenly mansion,
Not in some foul sty.’

‘Fair and foul are near of kin,
And fair needs foul,’ I cried.
‘My friends are gone, but that’s a truth
Nor grave nor bed denied,
Learned in bodily lowliness
And in the heart’s pride.

‘A woman can be proud and stiff
When on love intent;
But Love has pitched his mansion in
The place of excrement;
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.’

From the perspective of the persona Jane in 3 6-line stanzas, this poem is shaped by allusions Jane herself never actually  makes – to Macbeth (fair and foul and the witches), to the Bible, and even in its violence, to Yeats’ own “Leda and the Swan.” As in “Leda,” too, woman is an important symbol for Yeats – while other figures are abstracted into swans and symbols, woman, by virtue of her reproductive power, already seems to be symbolic. While the bishop condemns Jane for her appearance and lifestyle, she is intent on “making hay while the sun shines,” as it were. Yeats was 70 when he wrote it.

NEW POEMS (1938)


The poem concerns a piece of lapis lazuli from China depicting an ascetic, a servant, and a pupil climbing a mountain. For Yeats, “the east has its solutions always and therefore knows nothing of tragedy. It is we, not the east, that must raise the heroic cry. In the final stanza, Yeats ruminates on how perfect its accidents appear: “Every discolouration of the stone… Seems a water-course or an avalanche… On all the tragic scene they stare… Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,/ Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay.” There is also a bird flying over, “A symbol of longevity,” doubling the symbolism of long-held knowledge and solution that Yeats seems to peer on here.




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,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.


What can I but enumerate old themes,
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the bosom of his faery bride.

And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
‘The Countess Cathleen’ was the name I gave it;
She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
But masterful Heaven had intervened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.

And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
Players and painted stage took all my love,
And not those things that they were emblems of.


Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder’s gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart. 

Yeats’ last poem, it traces his career in interesting ways. The speaker begins by lamenting the lack of a theme; he must settle for his heart instead. With “Lion and woman and the Lord knows what,” Yeats looks back on the Irish folklore of his early poems, which are his “circus animals.” He reviews his early-middle period, from the poems and the play that retell old stories and legends to the more political play about Maud Gonne, in which she is idealized as a self-sacrificing heroine. “When all is said/ It was the dream itself enchanted me:/ Character isolated by a deed/ To engross the present and dominate memory./ Players and painted stage took all my love/ And not those things that they were emblem of.” Here Yeats claims his characterological and historical interests over his symbolic ones. In the final stanza, Yeats wonders where his “masterful images” originated – “A mound of refuse” that is reminscent of 1922’s “The Waste Land” with its “These fragments I have shored against my ruin.” He ends with a meditation on how bodily and spiritual his death is at once: “I must lie down where all the ladders start/ In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.”


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