The Project
Gutenberg
EBook of Poems, by W.
Yeats - Poems
?
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by 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. net
Title: Poems
Author: W. B. Yeats
Release Date: February 14, 2012 [EBook #38877]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
Produced by Irma ? pehar, Rory OConor and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www. pgdp. net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
POEMS
EVERY IRISHMAN'S LIBRARY
_Cr. 8vo. , cloth, 3s. 6d. net each. With Frontispieces. _
LIST OF VOLUMES
1. Thomas Davis. SELECTIONS FROM HIS PROSE
AND POETRY. Edited by T. W. ROLLESTON,
M. A. (Dublin).
2. Wild Sports of the West. By W. H. MAXWELL.
Edited by the EARL OF DUNRAVEN.
3. Legends of Saints and Sinners from the
Irish. Edited by DOUGLAS HYDE, LL. D.
(Dublin).
4. The Book of Irish Humour. Edited by
CHARLES L. GRAVES, M. A. (Oxon. ).
5. Irish Orators and Oratory. With an Introduction
by Professor T. M. KETTLE, M. P.
6. The Book of Irish Poetry. Edited by ALFRED
PERCEVAL GRAVES, M. A. (Dublin).
7. Standish O'Grady. SELECTED ESSAYS AND
PASSAGES. Edited by ERNEST A. BOYD.
8. Recollections of Jonah Barrington. Edited
by GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM.
9. Poems of Sir Samuel Ferguson. Edited by
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES, M. A.
10. Carleton's Stories of Irish Life. With an
Introduction by DARRELL FIGGIS.
11. The Collegians. By GERALD GRIFFIN. With
Introduction by PADRAIC COLUM.
12. Maria Edgeworth: SELECTIONS FROM HER
WORKS. With an Introduction by MALCOLM
COTTER SETON, M. A.
T. FISHER UNWIN LTD. , LONDON
[Illustration: Signature: WB Yeats]
POEMS
BY
W. B. YEATS
LONDON
T. FISHER UNWIN LTD.
ADELPHI TERRACE
"The Wanderings of Oisin" was published with the lyrics now collected
under the title "Crossways" in 1888, "The Countess Cathleen" with the
lyrics now collected under the title "The Rose" in 1892, and "The Land
of Heart's Desire" by itself in 1894. They were revised and reprinted in
one volume in 1895, again revised and reprinted in 1899, and again
reprinted in 1901, 1904, 1908, 1912, 1913, 1919, and 1920.
(_All rights reserved_)
PREFACE
During the last year I have spent much time altering "The Countess
Cathleen" and "The Land of Heart's Desire" that they might be a part of
the repertory of the Abbey Theatre. I had written them before I had any
practical experience, and I knew from the performance of the one in
Dublin in 1899 and of the other in London in 1894 that they were full of
defects. But in their new shape--and each play has been twice played
during the winter--they have given me some pleasure, and are, I think,
easier to play effectively than my later plays, depending less upon the
players and more upon the producer, both having been imagined more for
variety of stage-picture than variety of mood in the player. It was,
indeed, the first performance of "The Countess Cathleen," when our
stage-pictures were made out of poor conventional scenery and hired
costumes, that set me writing plays where all would depend upon the
player. The first two scenes are wholly new, and though I have left the
old end in the body of this book I have given in the notes an end less
difficult to producer and audience, and there are slight alterations
elsewhere in the poem. "The Land of Heart's Desire," besides some
mending in the details, has been thrown back in time because the
metrical speech would have sounded unreal if spoken in a country cottage
now that we have so many dialect comedies. The shades of Mrs. Fallan and
Mrs. Dillane and of Dan Bourke and the Tramp would have seemed too
boisterous or too vivid for shades made cold and distant with the
artifice of verse.
I have not again retouched the lyric poems of my youth, fearing some
stupidity in my middle years, but have changed two or three pages that I
always knew to be wrong in "The Wanderings of Usheen. "
W. B. YEATS.
_June, 1912. _
PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION
I have added some passages to "The Land of Heart's Desire," and a new
scene of some little length, besides passages here and there, to "The
Countess Cathleen. " The goddess has never come to me with her hands so
full that I have not found many waste places after I had planted all
that she had brought me. The present version of "The Countess Cathleen"
is not quite the version adopted by the Irish Literary Theatre a couple
of years ago, for our stage and scenery were capable of little; and it
may differ more from any stage version I make in future, for it seems
that my people of the waters and my unhappy dead, in the third act,
cannot keep their supernatural essence, but must put on too much of our
mortality, in any ordinary theatre. I am told that I must abandon a
meaning or two and make my merchants carry away the treasure
themselves. The act was written long ago, when I had seen so few plays
that I took pleasure in stage effects. Indeed, I am not yet certain that
a wealthy theatre could not shape it to an impressive pageantry, or that
a theatre without any wealth could not lift it out of pageantry into the
mind, with a dim curtain, and some dimly lighted players, and the
beautiful voices that should be as important in poetical as in musical
drama. The Elizabethan stage was so little imprisoned in material
circumstance that the Elizabethan imagination was not strained by god or
spirit, nor even by Echo herself--no, not even when she answered, as in
"The Duchess of Malfi," in clear, loud words which were not the words
that had been spoken to her. We have made a prison-house of paint and
canvas, where we have as little freedom as under our own roofs, for
there is no freedom in a house that has been made with hands. All art
moves in the cave of the Chimaera, or in the garden of the Hesperides, or
in the more silent house of the gods, and neither cave, nor garden, nor
house can show itself clearly but to the mind's eye.
Besides rewriting a lyric or two, I have much enlarged the note on "The
Countess Cathleen," as there has been some discussion in Ireland about
the origin of the story, but the other notes are as they have always
been. They are short enough, but I do not think that anybody who knows
modern poetry will find obscurities in this book. In any case, I must
leave my myths and symbols to explain themselves as the years go by and
one poems lights up another, and the stories that friends, and one
friend in particular, have gathered for me, or that I have gathered
myself in many cottages, find their way into the light. I would, if I
could, add to that majestic heraldry of the poets, that great and
complicated inheritance of images which written literature has
substituted for the greater and more complex inheritance of spoken
tradition, some new heraldic images, gathered from the lips of the
common people. Christianity and the old nature faith have lain down side
by side in the cottages, and I would proclaim that peace as loudly as I
can among the kingdoms of poetry, where there is no peace that is not
joyous, no battle that does not give life instead of death; I may even
try to persuade others, in more sober prose, that there can be no
language more worthy of poetry and of the meditation of the soul than
that which has been made, or can be made, out of a subtlety of desire,
an emotion of sacrifice, a delight in order, that are perhaps
Christian, and myths and images that mirror the energies of woods and
streams, and of their wild creatures. Has any part of that majestic
heraldry of the poets had a very different fountain? Is it not the
ritual of the marriage of heaven and earth?
These details may seem to many unnecessary; but after all one writes
poetry for a few careful readers and for a few friends, who will not
consider such details unnecessary. When Cimabue had the cry it was, it
seems, worth thinking of those that run; but to-day, when they can write
as well as read, one can sit with one's companions under the hedgerow
contentedly. If one writes well and has the patience, somebody will come
from among the runners and read what one has written quickly, and go
away quickly, and write out as much as he can remember in the language
of the highway.
W. B. YEATS.
_January, 1901. _
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN 1
THE ROSE--
To the Rose upon the Rood of Time 109
Fergus and the Druid 111
The Death of Cuchulain 114
The Rose of the World 119
The Rose of Peace 120
The Rose of Battle 121
A Faery Song 123
The Lake Isle of Innisfree 124
A Cradle Song 125
The Pity of Love 126
The Sorrow of Love 127
When You are Old 128
The White Birds 129
A Dream of Death 131
A Dream of a Blessed Spirit 132
Who goes with Fergus 133
The Man who Dreamed of Faeryland 134
The Dedication to a Book of Stories selected from
the Irish Novelists 137
The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner 139
The Ballad of Father Gilligan 140
The Two Trees 143
To Ireland in the Coming Times 145
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 149
CROSSWAYS--
The Song of the Happy Shepherd 197
The Sad Shepherd 200
The Cloak, The Boat, and the Shoes 202
Anashuya and Vijaya 203
The Indian upon God 209
The Indian to his Love 211
The Falling of the Leaves 213
Ephemera 214
The Madness of King Goll 216
The Stolen Child 220
To an Isle in the Water 223
Down by the Salley Gardens 224
The Meditation of the Old Fisherman 225
The Ballad of Father O'Hart 226
The Ballad of Moll Magee 229
The Ballad of the Foxhunter 232
THE WANDERINGS OF USHEEN 235
GLOSSARY AND NOTES 299
_TO SOME I HAVE TALKED WITH BY THE FIRE_
_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;
And talked of the dark folk, who live in souls
Of passionate men, like bats in the dead trees;
And of the wayward twilight companies,
Who sigh with mingled sorrow and content,
Because their blossoming dreams have never bent
Under the fruit of evil and of good:
And of the embattled flaming multitude
Who rise, wing above wing, flame above flame,
And, like a storm, cry the Ineffable Name,
And with the clashing of their sword blades make
A rapturous music, till the morning break,
And the white hush end all, but the loud beat
Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet. _
THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN
"The sorrowful are dumb for thee"
_Lament of Morion Shehone for Miss Mary Bourke_
TO
MAUD GONNE
SHEMUS RUA A Peasant
MARY His Wife
TEIG His Son
ALEEL A Poet
THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN
OONA Her Foster Mother
Two Demons disguised as Merchants
Peasants, Servants, Angelical Beings
_The Scene is laid in Ireland and in old times_
SCENE I
SCENE. --_A room with lighted fire, and a door into the open air,
through which one sees, perhaps, the trees of a wood, and these
trees should be painted in flat colour upon a gold or diapered sky.
The walls are of one colour. The scent should have the effect of
missal painting. _ MARY, a_ woman of forty years or so, is grinding
a quern_.
MARY
What can have made the grey hen flutter so?
(TEIG, _a boy of fourteen, is coming in with turf, which he lays beside
the hearth_. )
TEIG
They say that now the land is famine struck
The graves are walking.
MARY
There is something that the hen hears.
TEIG
And that is not the worst; at Tubber-vanach
A woman met a man with ears spread out,
And they moved up and down like a bat's wing.
MARY
What can have kept your father all this while?
TEIG
Two nights ago, at Carrick-orus churchyard,
A herdsman met a man who had no mouth,
Nor eyes, nor ears; his face a wall of flesh;
He saw him plainly by the light of the moon.
MARY
Look out, and tell me if your father's coming.
(TEIG _goes to door_. )
TEIG
Mother!
MARY
What is it?
TEIG
In the bush beyond,
There are two birds--if you can call them birds--
I could not see them rightly for the leaves.
But they've the shape and colour of horned owls
And I'm half certain they've a human face.
MARY
Mother of God, defend us!
TEIG
They're looking at me.
What is the good of praying? father says.
God and the Mother of God have dropped asleep.
What do they care, he says, though the whole land
Squeal like a rabbit under a weasel's tooth?
MARY
You'll bring misfortune with your blasphemies
Upon your father, or yourself, or me.
I would to God he were home--ah, there he is.
(SHEMUS _comes in_. )
What was it kept you in the wood? You know
I cannot get all sorts of accidents
Out of my mind till you are home again.
SHEMUS
I'm in no mood to listen to your clatter.
Although I tramped the woods for half a day,
I've taken nothing, for the very rats,
Badgers, and hedgehogs seem to have died of drought,
And there was scarce a wind in the parched leaves.
TEIG
Then you have brought no dinner.
SHEMUS
After that
I sat among the beggars at the cross-roads,
And held a hollow hand among the others.
MARY
What, did you beg?
SHEMUS
I had no chance to beg,
For when the beggars saw me they cried out
They would not have another share their alms,
And hunted me away with sticks and stones.
TEIG
You said that you would bring us food or money.
SHEMUS
What's in the house?
TEIG
A bit of mouldy bread.
MARY
There's flour enough to make another loaf.
TEIG
And when that's gone?
MARY
There is the hen in the coop.
SHEMUS
My curse upon the beggars, my curse upon them!
TEIG
And the last penny gone.
SHEMUS
When the hen's gone,
What can we do but live on sorrel and dock,
And dandelion, till our mouths are green?
MARY
God, that to this hour's found bit and sup,
Will cater for us still.
SHEMUS
His kitchen's bare.
There were five doors that I looked through this day
And saw the dead and not a soul to wake them.
MARY
Maybe He'd have us die because He knows,
When the ear is stopped and when the eye is stopped,
That every wicked sight is hid from the eye,
And all fool talk from the ear.
SHEMUS
Who's passing there?
And mocking us with music?
(_A stringed instrument without. _)
TEIG
A young man plays it,
There's an old woman and a lady with him.
SHEMUS
What is the trouble of the poor to her?
Nothing at all or a harsh radishy sauce
For the day's meat.
MARY
God's pity on the rich.
Had we been through as many doors, and seen
The dishes standing on the polished wood
In the wax candle light, we'd be as hard,
And there's the needle's eye at the end of all.
SHEMUS
My curse upon the rich.
TEIG
They're coming here.
SHEMUS
Then down upon that stool, down quick, I say,
And call up a whey face and a whining voice,
And let your head be bowed upon your knees.
MARY
Had I but time to put the place to rights.
(CATHLEEN, OONA, _and_ ALEEL _enter_. )
CATHLEEN
God save all here. There is a certain house,
An old grey castle with a kitchen garden,
A cider orchard and a plot for flowers,
Somewhere among these woods.
MARY
We know it, lady.
A place that's set among impassable walls
As though world's trouble could not find it out.
CATHLEEN
It may be that we are that trouble, for we--
Although we've wandered in the wood this hour--
Have lost it too, yet I should know my way,
For I lived all my childhood in that house.
MARY
Then you are Countess Cathleen?
CATHLEEN
And this woman,
Oona, my nurse, should have remembered it,
For we were happy for a long time there.
OONA
The paths are overgrown with thickets now,
Or else some change has come upon my sight.
CATHLEEN
And this young man, that should have known the woods--
Because we met him on their border but now,
Wandering and singing like a wave of the sea--
Is so wrapped up in dreams of terrors to come
That he can give no help.
MARY
You have still some way,
But I can put you on the trodden path
Your servants take when they are marketing.
But first sit down and rest yourself awhile,
For my old fathers served your fathers, lady,
Longer than books can tell--and it were strange
If you and yours should not be welcome here.
CATHLEEN
And it were stranger still were I ungrateful
For such kind welcome--but I must be gone,
For the night's gathering in.
SHEMUS
It is a long while
Since I've set eyes on bread or on what buys it.
CATHLEEN
So you are starving even in this wood,
Where I had thought I would find nothing changed.
But that's a dream, for the old worm o' the world
Can eat its way into what place it pleases.
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by 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. net
Title: Poems
Author: W. B. Yeats
Release Date: February 14, 2012 [EBook #38877]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
Produced by Irma ? pehar, Rory OConor and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www. pgdp. net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
POEMS
EVERY IRISHMAN'S LIBRARY
_Cr. 8vo. , cloth, 3s. 6d. net each. With Frontispieces. _
LIST OF VOLUMES
1. Thomas Davis. SELECTIONS FROM HIS PROSE
AND POETRY. Edited by T. W. ROLLESTON,
M. A. (Dublin).
2. Wild Sports of the West. By W. H. MAXWELL.
Edited by the EARL OF DUNRAVEN.
3. Legends of Saints and Sinners from the
Irish. Edited by DOUGLAS HYDE, LL. D.
(Dublin).
4. The Book of Irish Humour. Edited by
CHARLES L. GRAVES, M. A. (Oxon. ).
5. Irish Orators and Oratory. With an Introduction
by Professor T. M. KETTLE, M. P.
6. The Book of Irish Poetry. Edited by ALFRED
PERCEVAL GRAVES, M. A. (Dublin).
7. Standish O'Grady. SELECTED ESSAYS AND
PASSAGES. Edited by ERNEST A. BOYD.
8. Recollections of Jonah Barrington. Edited
by GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM.
9. Poems of Sir Samuel Ferguson. Edited by
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES, M. A.
10. Carleton's Stories of Irish Life. With an
Introduction by DARRELL FIGGIS.
11. The Collegians. By GERALD GRIFFIN. With
Introduction by PADRAIC COLUM.
12. Maria Edgeworth: SELECTIONS FROM HER
WORKS. With an Introduction by MALCOLM
COTTER SETON, M. A.
T. FISHER UNWIN LTD. , LONDON
[Illustration: Signature: WB Yeats]
POEMS
BY
W. B. YEATS
LONDON
T. FISHER UNWIN LTD.
ADELPHI TERRACE
"The Wanderings of Oisin" was published with the lyrics now collected
under the title "Crossways" in 1888, "The Countess Cathleen" with the
lyrics now collected under the title "The Rose" in 1892, and "The Land
of Heart's Desire" by itself in 1894. They were revised and reprinted in
one volume in 1895, again revised and reprinted in 1899, and again
reprinted in 1901, 1904, 1908, 1912, 1913, 1919, and 1920.
(_All rights reserved_)
PREFACE
During the last year I have spent much time altering "The Countess
Cathleen" and "The Land of Heart's Desire" that they might be a part of
the repertory of the Abbey Theatre. I had written them before I had any
practical experience, and I knew from the performance of the one in
Dublin in 1899 and of the other in London in 1894 that they were full of
defects. But in their new shape--and each play has been twice played
during the winter--they have given me some pleasure, and are, I think,
easier to play effectively than my later plays, depending less upon the
players and more upon the producer, both having been imagined more for
variety of stage-picture than variety of mood in the player. It was,
indeed, the first performance of "The Countess Cathleen," when our
stage-pictures were made out of poor conventional scenery and hired
costumes, that set me writing plays where all would depend upon the
player. The first two scenes are wholly new, and though I have left the
old end in the body of this book I have given in the notes an end less
difficult to producer and audience, and there are slight alterations
elsewhere in the poem. "The Land of Heart's Desire," besides some
mending in the details, has been thrown back in time because the
metrical speech would have sounded unreal if spoken in a country cottage
now that we have so many dialect comedies. The shades of Mrs. Fallan and
Mrs. Dillane and of Dan Bourke and the Tramp would have seemed too
boisterous or too vivid for shades made cold and distant with the
artifice of verse.
I have not again retouched the lyric poems of my youth, fearing some
stupidity in my middle years, but have changed two or three pages that I
always knew to be wrong in "The Wanderings of Usheen. "
W. B. YEATS.
_June, 1912. _
PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION
I have added some passages to "The Land of Heart's Desire," and a new
scene of some little length, besides passages here and there, to "The
Countess Cathleen. " The goddess has never come to me with her hands so
full that I have not found many waste places after I had planted all
that she had brought me. The present version of "The Countess Cathleen"
is not quite the version adopted by the Irish Literary Theatre a couple
of years ago, for our stage and scenery were capable of little; and it
may differ more from any stage version I make in future, for it seems
that my people of the waters and my unhappy dead, in the third act,
cannot keep their supernatural essence, but must put on too much of our
mortality, in any ordinary theatre. I am told that I must abandon a
meaning or two and make my merchants carry away the treasure
themselves. The act was written long ago, when I had seen so few plays
that I took pleasure in stage effects. Indeed, I am not yet certain that
a wealthy theatre could not shape it to an impressive pageantry, or that
a theatre without any wealth could not lift it out of pageantry into the
mind, with a dim curtain, and some dimly lighted players, and the
beautiful voices that should be as important in poetical as in musical
drama. The Elizabethan stage was so little imprisoned in material
circumstance that the Elizabethan imagination was not strained by god or
spirit, nor even by Echo herself--no, not even when she answered, as in
"The Duchess of Malfi," in clear, loud words which were not the words
that had been spoken to her. We have made a prison-house of paint and
canvas, where we have as little freedom as under our own roofs, for
there is no freedom in a house that has been made with hands. All art
moves in the cave of the Chimaera, or in the garden of the Hesperides, or
in the more silent house of the gods, and neither cave, nor garden, nor
house can show itself clearly but to the mind's eye.
Besides rewriting a lyric or two, I have much enlarged the note on "The
Countess Cathleen," as there has been some discussion in Ireland about
the origin of the story, but the other notes are as they have always
been. They are short enough, but I do not think that anybody who knows
modern poetry will find obscurities in this book. In any case, I must
leave my myths and symbols to explain themselves as the years go by and
one poems lights up another, and the stories that friends, and one
friend in particular, have gathered for me, or that I have gathered
myself in many cottages, find their way into the light. I would, if I
could, add to that majestic heraldry of the poets, that great and
complicated inheritance of images which written literature has
substituted for the greater and more complex inheritance of spoken
tradition, some new heraldic images, gathered from the lips of the
common people. Christianity and the old nature faith have lain down side
by side in the cottages, and I would proclaim that peace as loudly as I
can among the kingdoms of poetry, where there is no peace that is not
joyous, no battle that does not give life instead of death; I may even
try to persuade others, in more sober prose, that there can be no
language more worthy of poetry and of the meditation of the soul than
that which has been made, or can be made, out of a subtlety of desire,
an emotion of sacrifice, a delight in order, that are perhaps
Christian, and myths and images that mirror the energies of woods and
streams, and of their wild creatures. Has any part of that majestic
heraldry of the poets had a very different fountain? Is it not the
ritual of the marriage of heaven and earth?
These details may seem to many unnecessary; but after all one writes
poetry for a few careful readers and for a few friends, who will not
consider such details unnecessary. When Cimabue had the cry it was, it
seems, worth thinking of those that run; but to-day, when they can write
as well as read, one can sit with one's companions under the hedgerow
contentedly. If one writes well and has the patience, somebody will come
from among the runners and read what one has written quickly, and go
away quickly, and write out as much as he can remember in the language
of the highway.
W. B. YEATS.
_January, 1901. _
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN 1
THE ROSE--
To the Rose upon the Rood of Time 109
Fergus and the Druid 111
The Death of Cuchulain 114
The Rose of the World 119
The Rose of Peace 120
The Rose of Battle 121
A Faery Song 123
The Lake Isle of Innisfree 124
A Cradle Song 125
The Pity of Love 126
The Sorrow of Love 127
When You are Old 128
The White Birds 129
A Dream of Death 131
A Dream of a Blessed Spirit 132
Who goes with Fergus 133
The Man who Dreamed of Faeryland 134
The Dedication to a Book of Stories selected from
the Irish Novelists 137
The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner 139
The Ballad of Father Gilligan 140
The Two Trees 143
To Ireland in the Coming Times 145
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 149
CROSSWAYS--
The Song of the Happy Shepherd 197
The Sad Shepherd 200
The Cloak, The Boat, and the Shoes 202
Anashuya and Vijaya 203
The Indian upon God 209
The Indian to his Love 211
The Falling of the Leaves 213
Ephemera 214
The Madness of King Goll 216
The Stolen Child 220
To an Isle in the Water 223
Down by the Salley Gardens 224
The Meditation of the Old Fisherman 225
The Ballad of Father O'Hart 226
The Ballad of Moll Magee 229
The Ballad of the Foxhunter 232
THE WANDERINGS OF USHEEN 235
GLOSSARY AND NOTES 299
_TO SOME I HAVE TALKED WITH BY THE FIRE_
_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;
And talked of the dark folk, who live in souls
Of passionate men, like bats in the dead trees;
And of the wayward twilight companies,
Who sigh with mingled sorrow and content,
Because their blossoming dreams have never bent
Under the fruit of evil and of good:
And of the embattled flaming multitude
Who rise, wing above wing, flame above flame,
And, like a storm, cry the Ineffable Name,
And with the clashing of their sword blades make
A rapturous music, till the morning break,
And the white hush end all, but the loud beat
Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet. _
THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN
"The sorrowful are dumb for thee"
_Lament of Morion Shehone for Miss Mary Bourke_
TO
MAUD GONNE
SHEMUS RUA A Peasant
MARY His Wife
TEIG His Son
ALEEL A Poet
THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN
OONA Her Foster Mother
Two Demons disguised as Merchants
Peasants, Servants, Angelical Beings
_The Scene is laid in Ireland and in old times_
SCENE I
SCENE. --_A room with lighted fire, and a door into the open air,
through which one sees, perhaps, the trees of a wood, and these
trees should be painted in flat colour upon a gold or diapered sky.
The walls are of one colour. The scent should have the effect of
missal painting. _ MARY, a_ woman of forty years or so, is grinding
a quern_.
MARY
What can have made the grey hen flutter so?
(TEIG, _a boy of fourteen, is coming in with turf, which he lays beside
the hearth_. )
TEIG
They say that now the land is famine struck
The graves are walking.
MARY
There is something that the hen hears.
TEIG
And that is not the worst; at Tubber-vanach
A woman met a man with ears spread out,
And they moved up and down like a bat's wing.
MARY
What can have kept your father all this while?
TEIG
Two nights ago, at Carrick-orus churchyard,
A herdsman met a man who had no mouth,
Nor eyes, nor ears; his face a wall of flesh;
He saw him plainly by the light of the moon.
MARY
Look out, and tell me if your father's coming.
(TEIG _goes to door_. )
TEIG
Mother!
MARY
What is it?
TEIG
In the bush beyond,
There are two birds--if you can call them birds--
I could not see them rightly for the leaves.
But they've the shape and colour of horned owls
And I'm half certain they've a human face.
MARY
Mother of God, defend us!
TEIG
They're looking at me.
What is the good of praying? father says.
God and the Mother of God have dropped asleep.
What do they care, he says, though the whole land
Squeal like a rabbit under a weasel's tooth?
MARY
You'll bring misfortune with your blasphemies
Upon your father, or yourself, or me.
I would to God he were home--ah, there he is.
(SHEMUS _comes in_. )
What was it kept you in the wood? You know
I cannot get all sorts of accidents
Out of my mind till you are home again.
SHEMUS
I'm in no mood to listen to your clatter.
Although I tramped the woods for half a day,
I've taken nothing, for the very rats,
Badgers, and hedgehogs seem to have died of drought,
And there was scarce a wind in the parched leaves.
TEIG
Then you have brought no dinner.
SHEMUS
After that
I sat among the beggars at the cross-roads,
And held a hollow hand among the others.
MARY
What, did you beg?
SHEMUS
I had no chance to beg,
For when the beggars saw me they cried out
They would not have another share their alms,
And hunted me away with sticks and stones.
TEIG
You said that you would bring us food or money.
SHEMUS
What's in the house?
TEIG
A bit of mouldy bread.
MARY
There's flour enough to make another loaf.
TEIG
And when that's gone?
MARY
There is the hen in the coop.
SHEMUS
My curse upon the beggars, my curse upon them!
TEIG
And the last penny gone.
SHEMUS
When the hen's gone,
What can we do but live on sorrel and dock,
And dandelion, till our mouths are green?
MARY
God, that to this hour's found bit and sup,
Will cater for us still.
SHEMUS
His kitchen's bare.
There were five doors that I looked through this day
And saw the dead and not a soul to wake them.
MARY
Maybe He'd have us die because He knows,
When the ear is stopped and when the eye is stopped,
That every wicked sight is hid from the eye,
And all fool talk from the ear.
SHEMUS
Who's passing there?
And mocking us with music?
(_A stringed instrument without. _)
TEIG
A young man plays it,
There's an old woman and a lady with him.
SHEMUS
What is the trouble of the poor to her?
Nothing at all or a harsh radishy sauce
For the day's meat.
MARY
God's pity on the rich.
Had we been through as many doors, and seen
The dishes standing on the polished wood
In the wax candle light, we'd be as hard,
And there's the needle's eye at the end of all.
SHEMUS
My curse upon the rich.
TEIG
They're coming here.
SHEMUS
Then down upon that stool, down quick, I say,
And call up a whey face and a whining voice,
And let your head be bowed upon your knees.
MARY
Had I but time to put the place to rights.
(CATHLEEN, OONA, _and_ ALEEL _enter_. )
CATHLEEN
God save all here. There is a certain house,
An old grey castle with a kitchen garden,
A cider orchard and a plot for flowers,
Somewhere among these woods.
MARY
We know it, lady.
A place that's set among impassable walls
As though world's trouble could not find it out.
CATHLEEN
It may be that we are that trouble, for we--
Although we've wandered in the wood this hour--
Have lost it too, yet I should know my way,
For I lived all my childhood in that house.
MARY
Then you are Countess Cathleen?
CATHLEEN
And this woman,
Oona, my nurse, should have remembered it,
For we were happy for a long time there.
OONA
The paths are overgrown with thickets now,
Or else some change has come upon my sight.
CATHLEEN
And this young man, that should have known the woods--
Because we met him on their border but now,
Wandering and singing like a wave of the sea--
Is so wrapped up in dreams of terrors to come
That he can give no help.
MARY
You have still some way,
But I can put you on the trodden path
Your servants take when they are marketing.
But first sit down and rest yourself awhile,
For my old fathers served your fathers, lady,
Longer than books can tell--and it were strange
If you and yours should not be welcome here.
CATHLEEN
And it were stranger still were I ungrateful
For such kind welcome--but I must be gone,
For the night's gathering in.
SHEMUS
It is a long while
Since I've set eyes on bread or on what buys it.
CATHLEEN
So you are starving even in this wood,
Where I had thought I would find nothing changed.
But that's a dream, for the old worm o' the world
Can eat its way into what place it pleases.
(_She gives money. _)
TEIG
Beautiful lady, give me something too;
I fell but now, being weak with hunger and thirst
And lay upon the threshold like a log.
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. net
Title: Poems
Author: W. B. Yeats
Release Date: February 14, 2012 [EBook #38877]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
Produced by Irma ? pehar, Rory OConor and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www. pgdp. net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
POEMS
EVERY IRISHMAN'S LIBRARY
_Cr. 8vo. , cloth, 3s. 6d. net each. With Frontispieces. _
LIST OF VOLUMES
1. Thomas Davis. SELECTIONS FROM HIS PROSE
AND POETRY. Edited by T. W. ROLLESTON,
M. A. (Dublin).
2. Wild Sports of the West. By W. H. MAXWELL.
Edited by the EARL OF DUNRAVEN.
3. Legends of Saints and Sinners from the
Irish. Edited by DOUGLAS HYDE, LL. D.
(Dublin).
4. The Book of Irish Humour. Edited by
CHARLES L. GRAVES, M. A. (Oxon. ).
5. Irish Orators and Oratory. With an Introduction
by Professor T. M. KETTLE, M. P.
6. The Book of Irish Poetry. Edited by ALFRED
PERCEVAL GRAVES, M. A. (Dublin).
7. Standish O'Grady. SELECTED ESSAYS AND
PASSAGES. Edited by ERNEST A. BOYD.
8. Recollections of Jonah Barrington. Edited
by GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM.
9. Poems of Sir Samuel Ferguson. Edited by
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES, M. A.
10. Carleton's Stories of Irish Life. With an
Introduction by DARRELL FIGGIS.
11. The Collegians. By GERALD GRIFFIN. With
Introduction by PADRAIC COLUM.
12. Maria Edgeworth: SELECTIONS FROM HER
WORKS. With an Introduction by MALCOLM
COTTER SETON, M. A.
T. FISHER UNWIN LTD. , LONDON
[Illustration: Signature: WB Yeats]
POEMS
BY
W. B. YEATS
LONDON
T. FISHER UNWIN LTD.
ADELPHI TERRACE
"The Wanderings of Oisin" was published with the lyrics now collected
under the title "Crossways" in 1888, "The Countess Cathleen" with the
lyrics now collected under the title "The Rose" in 1892, and "The Land
of Heart's Desire" by itself in 1894. They were revised and reprinted in
one volume in 1895, again revised and reprinted in 1899, and again
reprinted in 1901, 1904, 1908, 1912, 1913, 1919, and 1920.
(_All rights reserved_)
PREFACE
During the last year I have spent much time altering "The Countess
Cathleen" and "The Land of Heart's Desire" that they might be a part of
the repertory of the Abbey Theatre. I had written them before I had any
practical experience, and I knew from the performance of the one in
Dublin in 1899 and of the other in London in 1894 that they were full of
defects. But in their new shape--and each play has been twice played
during the winter--they have given me some pleasure, and are, I think,
easier to play effectively than my later plays, depending less upon the
players and more upon the producer, both having been imagined more for
variety of stage-picture than variety of mood in the player. It was,
indeed, the first performance of "The Countess Cathleen," when our
stage-pictures were made out of poor conventional scenery and hired
costumes, that set me writing plays where all would depend upon the
player. The first two scenes are wholly new, and though I have left the
old end in the body of this book I have given in the notes an end less
difficult to producer and audience, and there are slight alterations
elsewhere in the poem. "The Land of Heart's Desire," besides some
mending in the details, has been thrown back in time because the
metrical speech would have sounded unreal if spoken in a country cottage
now that we have so many dialect comedies. The shades of Mrs. Fallan and
Mrs. Dillane and of Dan Bourke and the Tramp would have seemed too
boisterous or too vivid for shades made cold and distant with the
artifice of verse.
I have not again retouched the lyric poems of my youth, fearing some
stupidity in my middle years, but have changed two or three pages that I
always knew to be wrong in "The Wanderings of Usheen. "
W. B. YEATS.
_June, 1912. _
PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION
I have added some passages to "The Land of Heart's Desire," and a new
scene of some little length, besides passages here and there, to "The
Countess Cathleen. " The goddess has never come to me with her hands so
full that I have not found many waste places after I had planted all
that she had brought me. The present version of "The Countess Cathleen"
is not quite the version adopted by the Irish Literary Theatre a couple
of years ago, for our stage and scenery were capable of little; and it
may differ more from any stage version I make in future, for it seems
that my people of the waters and my unhappy dead, in the third act,
cannot keep their supernatural essence, but must put on too much of our
mortality, in any ordinary theatre. I am told that I must abandon a
meaning or two and make my merchants carry away the treasure
themselves. The act was written long ago, when I had seen so few plays
that I took pleasure in stage effects. Indeed, I am not yet certain that
a wealthy theatre could not shape it to an impressive pageantry, or that
a theatre without any wealth could not lift it out of pageantry into the
mind, with a dim curtain, and some dimly lighted players, and the
beautiful voices that should be as important in poetical as in musical
drama. The Elizabethan stage was so little imprisoned in material
circumstance that the Elizabethan imagination was not strained by god or
spirit, nor even by Echo herself--no, not even when she answered, as in
"The Duchess of Malfi," in clear, loud words which were not the words
that had been spoken to her. We have made a prison-house of paint and
canvas, where we have as little freedom as under our own roofs, for
there is no freedom in a house that has been made with hands. All art
moves in the cave of the Chimaera, or in the garden of the Hesperides, or
in the more silent house of the gods, and neither cave, nor garden, nor
house can show itself clearly but to the mind's eye.
Besides rewriting a lyric or two, I have much enlarged the note on "The
Countess Cathleen," as there has been some discussion in Ireland about
the origin of the story, but the other notes are as they have always
been. They are short enough, but I do not think that anybody who knows
modern poetry will find obscurities in this book. In any case, I must
leave my myths and symbols to explain themselves as the years go by and
one poems lights up another, and the stories that friends, and one
friend in particular, have gathered for me, or that I have gathered
myself in many cottages, find their way into the light. I would, if I
could, add to that majestic heraldry of the poets, that great and
complicated inheritance of images which written literature has
substituted for the greater and more complex inheritance of spoken
tradition, some new heraldic images, gathered from the lips of the
common people. Christianity and the old nature faith have lain down side
by side in the cottages, and I would proclaim that peace as loudly as I
can among the kingdoms of poetry, where there is no peace that is not
joyous, no battle that does not give life instead of death; I may even
try to persuade others, in more sober prose, that there can be no
language more worthy of poetry and of the meditation of the soul than
that which has been made, or can be made, out of a subtlety of desire,
an emotion of sacrifice, a delight in order, that are perhaps
Christian, and myths and images that mirror the energies of woods and
streams, and of their wild creatures. Has any part of that majestic
heraldry of the poets had a very different fountain? Is it not the
ritual of the marriage of heaven and earth?
These details may seem to many unnecessary; but after all one writes
poetry for a few careful readers and for a few friends, who will not
consider such details unnecessary. When Cimabue had the cry it was, it
seems, worth thinking of those that run; but to-day, when they can write
as well as read, one can sit with one's companions under the hedgerow
contentedly. If one writes well and has the patience, somebody will come
from among the runners and read what one has written quickly, and go
away quickly, and write out as much as he can remember in the language
of the highway.
W. B. YEATS.
_January, 1901. _
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN 1
THE ROSE--
To the Rose upon the Rood of Time 109
Fergus and the Druid 111
The Death of Cuchulain 114
The Rose of the World 119
The Rose of Peace 120
The Rose of Battle 121
A Faery Song 123
The Lake Isle of Innisfree 124
A Cradle Song 125
The Pity of Love 126
The Sorrow of Love 127
When You are Old 128
The White Birds 129
A Dream of Death 131
A Dream of a Blessed Spirit 132
Who goes with Fergus 133
The Man who Dreamed of Faeryland 134
The Dedication to a Book of Stories selected from
the Irish Novelists 137
The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner 139
The Ballad of Father Gilligan 140
The Two Trees 143
To Ireland in the Coming Times 145
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 149
CROSSWAYS--
The Song of the Happy Shepherd 197
The Sad Shepherd 200
The Cloak, The Boat, and the Shoes 202
Anashuya and Vijaya 203
The Indian upon God 209
The Indian to his Love 211
The Falling of the Leaves 213
Ephemera 214
The Madness of King Goll 216
The Stolen Child 220
To an Isle in the Water 223
Down by the Salley Gardens 224
The Meditation of the Old Fisherman 225
The Ballad of Father O'Hart 226
The Ballad of Moll Magee 229
The Ballad of the Foxhunter 232
THE WANDERINGS OF USHEEN 235
GLOSSARY AND NOTES 299
_TO SOME I HAVE TALKED WITH BY THE FIRE_
_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;
And talked of the dark folk, who live in souls
Of passionate men, like bats in the dead trees;
And of the wayward twilight companies,
Who sigh with mingled sorrow and content,
Because their blossoming dreams have never bent
Under the fruit of evil and of good:
And of the embattled flaming multitude
Who rise, wing above wing, flame above flame,
And, like a storm, cry the Ineffable Name,
And with the clashing of their sword blades make
A rapturous music, till the morning break,
And the white hush end all, but the loud beat
Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet. _
THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN
"The sorrowful are dumb for thee"
_Lament of Morion Shehone for Miss Mary Bourke_
TO
MAUD GONNE
SHEMUS RUA A Peasant
MARY His Wife
TEIG His Son
ALEEL A Poet
THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN
OONA Her Foster Mother
Two Demons disguised as Merchants
Peasants, Servants, Angelical Beings
_The Scene is laid in Ireland and in old times_
SCENE I
SCENE. --_A room with lighted fire, and a door into the open air,
through which one sees, perhaps, the trees of a wood, and these
trees should be painted in flat colour upon a gold or diapered sky.
The walls are of one colour. The scent should have the effect of
missal painting. _ MARY, a_ woman of forty years or so, is grinding
a quern_.
MARY
What can have made the grey hen flutter so?
(TEIG, _a boy of fourteen, is coming in with turf, which he lays beside
the hearth_. )
TEIG
They say that now the land is famine struck
The graves are walking.
MARY
There is something that the hen hears.
TEIG
And that is not the worst; at Tubber-vanach
A woman met a man with ears spread out,
And they moved up and down like a bat's wing.
MARY
What can have kept your father all this while?
TEIG
Two nights ago, at Carrick-orus churchyard,
A herdsman met a man who had no mouth,
Nor eyes, nor ears; his face a wall of flesh;
He saw him plainly by the light of the moon.
MARY
Look out, and tell me if your father's coming.
(TEIG _goes to door_. )
TEIG
Mother!
MARY
What is it?
TEIG
In the bush beyond,
There are two birds--if you can call them birds--
I could not see them rightly for the leaves.
But they've the shape and colour of horned owls
And I'm half certain they've a human face.
MARY
Mother of God, defend us!
TEIG
They're looking at me.
What is the good of praying? father says.
God and the Mother of God have dropped asleep.
What do they care, he says, though the whole land
Squeal like a rabbit under a weasel's tooth?
MARY
You'll bring misfortune with your blasphemies
Upon your father, or yourself, or me.
I would to God he were home--ah, there he is.
(SHEMUS _comes in_. )
What was it kept you in the wood? You know
I cannot get all sorts of accidents
Out of my mind till you are home again.
SHEMUS
I'm in no mood to listen to your clatter.
Although I tramped the woods for half a day,
I've taken nothing, for the very rats,
Badgers, and hedgehogs seem to have died of drought,
And there was scarce a wind in the parched leaves.
TEIG
Then you have brought no dinner.
SHEMUS
After that
I sat among the beggars at the cross-roads,
And held a hollow hand among the others.
MARY
What, did you beg?
SHEMUS
I had no chance to beg,
For when the beggars saw me they cried out
They would not have another share their alms,
And hunted me away with sticks and stones.
TEIG
You said that you would bring us food or money.
SHEMUS
What's in the house?
TEIG
A bit of mouldy bread.
MARY
There's flour enough to make another loaf.
TEIG
And when that's gone?
MARY
There is the hen in the coop.
SHEMUS
My curse upon the beggars, my curse upon them!
TEIG
And the last penny gone.
SHEMUS
When the hen's gone,
What can we do but live on sorrel and dock,
And dandelion, till our mouths are green?
MARY
God, that to this hour's found bit and sup,
Will cater for us still.
SHEMUS
His kitchen's bare.
There were five doors that I looked through this day
And saw the dead and not a soul to wake them.
MARY
Maybe He'd have us die because He knows,
When the ear is stopped and when the eye is stopped,
That every wicked sight is hid from the eye,
And all fool talk from the ear.
SHEMUS
Who's passing there?
And mocking us with music?
(_A stringed instrument without. _)
TEIG
A young man plays it,
There's an old woman and a lady with him.
SHEMUS
What is the trouble of the poor to her?
Nothing at all or a harsh radishy sauce
For the day's meat.
MARY
God's pity on the rich.
Had we been through as many doors, and seen
The dishes standing on the polished wood
In the wax candle light, we'd be as hard,
And there's the needle's eye at the end of all.
SHEMUS
My curse upon the rich.
TEIG
They're coming here.
SHEMUS
Then down upon that stool, down quick, I say,
And call up a whey face and a whining voice,
And let your head be bowed upon your knees.
MARY
Had I but time to put the place to rights.
(CATHLEEN, OONA, _and_ ALEEL _enter_. )
CATHLEEN
God save all here. There is a certain house,
An old grey castle with a kitchen garden,
A cider orchard and a plot for flowers,
Somewhere among these woods.
MARY
We know it, lady.
A place that's set among impassable walls
As though world's trouble could not find it out.
CATHLEEN
It may be that we are that trouble, for we--
Although we've wandered in the wood this hour--
Have lost it too, yet I should know my way,
For I lived all my childhood in that house.
MARY
Then you are Countess Cathleen?
CATHLEEN
And this woman,
Oona, my nurse, should have remembered it,
For we were happy for a long time there.
OONA
The paths are overgrown with thickets now,
Or else some change has come upon my sight.
CATHLEEN
And this young man, that should have known the woods--
Because we met him on their border but now,
Wandering and singing like a wave of the sea--
Is so wrapped up in dreams of terrors to come
That he can give no help.
MARY
You have still some way,
But I can put you on the trodden path
Your servants take when they are marketing.
But first sit down and rest yourself awhile,
For my old fathers served your fathers, lady,
Longer than books can tell--and it were strange
If you and yours should not be welcome here.
CATHLEEN
And it were stranger still were I ungrateful
For such kind welcome--but I must be gone,
For the night's gathering in.
SHEMUS
It is a long while
Since I've set eyes on bread or on what buys it.
CATHLEEN
So you are starving even in this wood,
Where I had thought I would find nothing changed.
But that's a dream, for the old worm o' the world
Can eat its way into what place it pleases.
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by 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. net
Title: Poems
Author: W. B. Yeats
Release Date: February 14, 2012 [EBook #38877]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
Produced by Irma ? pehar, Rory OConor and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www. pgdp. net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
POEMS
EVERY IRISHMAN'S LIBRARY
_Cr. 8vo. , cloth, 3s. 6d. net each. With Frontispieces. _
LIST OF VOLUMES
1. Thomas Davis. SELECTIONS FROM HIS PROSE
AND POETRY. Edited by T. W. ROLLESTON,
M. A. (Dublin).
2. Wild Sports of the West. By W. H. MAXWELL.
Edited by the EARL OF DUNRAVEN.
3. Legends of Saints and Sinners from the
Irish. Edited by DOUGLAS HYDE, LL. D.
(Dublin).
4. The Book of Irish Humour. Edited by
CHARLES L. GRAVES, M. A. (Oxon. ).
5. Irish Orators and Oratory. With an Introduction
by Professor T. M. KETTLE, M. P.
6. The Book of Irish Poetry. Edited by ALFRED
PERCEVAL GRAVES, M. A. (Dublin).
7. Standish O'Grady. SELECTED ESSAYS AND
PASSAGES. Edited by ERNEST A. BOYD.
8. Recollections of Jonah Barrington. Edited
by GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM.
9. Poems of Sir Samuel Ferguson. Edited by
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES, M. A.
10. Carleton's Stories of Irish Life. With an
Introduction by DARRELL FIGGIS.
11. The Collegians. By GERALD GRIFFIN. With
Introduction by PADRAIC COLUM.
12. Maria Edgeworth: SELECTIONS FROM HER
WORKS. With an Introduction by MALCOLM
COTTER SETON, M. A.
T. FISHER UNWIN LTD. , LONDON
[Illustration: Signature: WB Yeats]
POEMS
BY
W. B. YEATS
LONDON
T. FISHER UNWIN LTD.
ADELPHI TERRACE
"The Wanderings of Oisin" was published with the lyrics now collected
under the title "Crossways" in 1888, "The Countess Cathleen" with the
lyrics now collected under the title "The Rose" in 1892, and "The Land
of Heart's Desire" by itself in 1894. They were revised and reprinted in
one volume in 1895, again revised and reprinted in 1899, and again
reprinted in 1901, 1904, 1908, 1912, 1913, 1919, and 1920.
(_All rights reserved_)
PREFACE
During the last year I have spent much time altering "The Countess
Cathleen" and "The Land of Heart's Desire" that they might be a part of
the repertory of the Abbey Theatre. I had written them before I had any
practical experience, and I knew from the performance of the one in
Dublin in 1899 and of the other in London in 1894 that they were full of
defects. But in their new shape--and each play has been twice played
during the winter--they have given me some pleasure, and are, I think,
easier to play effectively than my later plays, depending less upon the
players and more upon the producer, both having been imagined more for
variety of stage-picture than variety of mood in the player. It was,
indeed, the first performance of "The Countess Cathleen," when our
stage-pictures were made out of poor conventional scenery and hired
costumes, that set me writing plays where all would depend upon the
player. The first two scenes are wholly new, and though I have left the
old end in the body of this book I have given in the notes an end less
difficult to producer and audience, and there are slight alterations
elsewhere in the poem. "The Land of Heart's Desire," besides some
mending in the details, has been thrown back in time because the
metrical speech would have sounded unreal if spoken in a country cottage
now that we have so many dialect comedies. The shades of Mrs. Fallan and
Mrs. Dillane and of Dan Bourke and the Tramp would have seemed too
boisterous or too vivid for shades made cold and distant with the
artifice of verse.
I have not again retouched the lyric poems of my youth, fearing some
stupidity in my middle years, but have changed two or three pages that I
always knew to be wrong in "The Wanderings of Usheen. "
W. B. YEATS.
_June, 1912. _
PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION
I have added some passages to "The Land of Heart's Desire," and a new
scene of some little length, besides passages here and there, to "The
Countess Cathleen. " The goddess has never come to me with her hands so
full that I have not found many waste places after I had planted all
that she had brought me. The present version of "The Countess Cathleen"
is not quite the version adopted by the Irish Literary Theatre a couple
of years ago, for our stage and scenery were capable of little; and it
may differ more from any stage version I make in future, for it seems
that my people of the waters and my unhappy dead, in the third act,
cannot keep their supernatural essence, but must put on too much of our
mortality, in any ordinary theatre. I am told that I must abandon a
meaning or two and make my merchants carry away the treasure
themselves. The act was written long ago, when I had seen so few plays
that I took pleasure in stage effects. Indeed, I am not yet certain that
a wealthy theatre could not shape it to an impressive pageantry, or that
a theatre without any wealth could not lift it out of pageantry into the
mind, with a dim curtain, and some dimly lighted players, and the
beautiful voices that should be as important in poetical as in musical
drama. The Elizabethan stage was so little imprisoned in material
circumstance that the Elizabethan imagination was not strained by god or
spirit, nor even by Echo herself--no, not even when she answered, as in
"The Duchess of Malfi," in clear, loud words which were not the words
that had been spoken to her. We have made a prison-house of paint and
canvas, where we have as little freedom as under our own roofs, for
there is no freedom in a house that has been made with hands. All art
moves in the cave of the Chimaera, or in the garden of the Hesperides, or
in the more silent house of the gods, and neither cave, nor garden, nor
house can show itself clearly but to the mind's eye.
Besides rewriting a lyric or two, I have much enlarged the note on "The
Countess Cathleen," as there has been some discussion in Ireland about
the origin of the story, but the other notes are as they have always
been. They are short enough, but I do not think that anybody who knows
modern poetry will find obscurities in this book. In any case, I must
leave my myths and symbols to explain themselves as the years go by and
one poems lights up another, and the stories that friends, and one
friend in particular, have gathered for me, or that I have gathered
myself in many cottages, find their way into the light. I would, if I
could, add to that majestic heraldry of the poets, that great and
complicated inheritance of images which written literature has
substituted for the greater and more complex inheritance of spoken
tradition, some new heraldic images, gathered from the lips of the
common people. Christianity and the old nature faith have lain down side
by side in the cottages, and I would proclaim that peace as loudly as I
can among the kingdoms of poetry, where there is no peace that is not
joyous, no battle that does not give life instead of death; I may even
try to persuade others, in more sober prose, that there can be no
language more worthy of poetry and of the meditation of the soul than
that which has been made, or can be made, out of a subtlety of desire,
an emotion of sacrifice, a delight in order, that are perhaps
Christian, and myths and images that mirror the energies of woods and
streams, and of their wild creatures. Has any part of that majestic
heraldry of the poets had a very different fountain? Is it not the
ritual of the marriage of heaven and earth?
These details may seem to many unnecessary; but after all one writes
poetry for a few careful readers and for a few friends, who will not
consider such details unnecessary. When Cimabue had the cry it was, it
seems, worth thinking of those that run; but to-day, when they can write
as well as read, one can sit with one's companions under the hedgerow
contentedly. If one writes well and has the patience, somebody will come
from among the runners and read what one has written quickly, and go
away quickly, and write out as much as he can remember in the language
of the highway.
W. B. YEATS.
_January, 1901. _
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN 1
THE ROSE--
To the Rose upon the Rood of Time 109
Fergus and the Druid 111
The Death of Cuchulain 114
The Rose of the World 119
The Rose of Peace 120
The Rose of Battle 121
A Faery Song 123
The Lake Isle of Innisfree 124
A Cradle Song 125
The Pity of Love 126
The Sorrow of Love 127
When You are Old 128
The White Birds 129
A Dream of Death 131
A Dream of a Blessed Spirit 132
Who goes with Fergus 133
The Man who Dreamed of Faeryland 134
The Dedication to a Book of Stories selected from
the Irish Novelists 137
The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner 139
The Ballad of Father Gilligan 140
The Two Trees 143
To Ireland in the Coming Times 145
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 149
CROSSWAYS--
The Song of the Happy Shepherd 197
The Sad Shepherd 200
The Cloak, The Boat, and the Shoes 202
Anashuya and Vijaya 203
The Indian upon God 209
The Indian to his Love 211
The Falling of the Leaves 213
Ephemera 214
The Madness of King Goll 216
The Stolen Child 220
To an Isle in the Water 223
Down by the Salley Gardens 224
The Meditation of the Old Fisherman 225
The Ballad of Father O'Hart 226
The Ballad of Moll Magee 229
The Ballad of the Foxhunter 232
THE WANDERINGS OF USHEEN 235
GLOSSARY AND NOTES 299
_TO SOME I HAVE TALKED WITH BY THE FIRE_
_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;
And talked of the dark folk, who live in souls
Of passionate men, like bats in the dead trees;
And of the wayward twilight companies,
Who sigh with mingled sorrow and content,
Because their blossoming dreams have never bent
Under the fruit of evil and of good:
And of the embattled flaming multitude
Who rise, wing above wing, flame above flame,
And, like a storm, cry the Ineffable Name,
And with the clashing of their sword blades make
A rapturous music, till the morning break,
And the white hush end all, but the loud beat
Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet. _
THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN
"The sorrowful are dumb for thee"
_Lament of Morion Shehone for Miss Mary Bourke_
TO
MAUD GONNE
SHEMUS RUA A Peasant
MARY His Wife
TEIG His Son
ALEEL A Poet
THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN
OONA Her Foster Mother
Two Demons disguised as Merchants
Peasants, Servants, Angelical Beings
_The Scene is laid in Ireland and in old times_
SCENE I
SCENE. --_A room with lighted fire, and a door into the open air,
through which one sees, perhaps, the trees of a wood, and these
trees should be painted in flat colour upon a gold or diapered sky.
The walls are of one colour. The scent should have the effect of
missal painting. _ MARY, a_ woman of forty years or so, is grinding
a quern_.
MARY
What can have made the grey hen flutter so?
(TEIG, _a boy of fourteen, is coming in with turf, which he lays beside
the hearth_. )
TEIG
They say that now the land is famine struck
The graves are walking.
MARY
There is something that the hen hears.
TEIG
And that is not the worst; at Tubber-vanach
A woman met a man with ears spread out,
And they moved up and down like a bat's wing.
MARY
What can have kept your father all this while?
TEIG
Two nights ago, at Carrick-orus churchyard,
A herdsman met a man who had no mouth,
Nor eyes, nor ears; his face a wall of flesh;
He saw him plainly by the light of the moon.
MARY
Look out, and tell me if your father's coming.
(TEIG _goes to door_. )
TEIG
Mother!
MARY
What is it?
TEIG
In the bush beyond,
There are two birds--if you can call them birds--
I could not see them rightly for the leaves.
But they've the shape and colour of horned owls
And I'm half certain they've a human face.
MARY
Mother of God, defend us!
TEIG
They're looking at me.
What is the good of praying? father says.
God and the Mother of God have dropped asleep.
What do they care, he says, though the whole land
Squeal like a rabbit under a weasel's tooth?
MARY
You'll bring misfortune with your blasphemies
Upon your father, or yourself, or me.
I would to God he were home--ah, there he is.
(SHEMUS _comes in_. )
What was it kept you in the wood? You know
I cannot get all sorts of accidents
Out of my mind till you are home again.
SHEMUS
I'm in no mood to listen to your clatter.
Although I tramped the woods for half a day,
I've taken nothing, for the very rats,
Badgers, and hedgehogs seem to have died of drought,
And there was scarce a wind in the parched leaves.
TEIG
Then you have brought no dinner.
SHEMUS
After that
I sat among the beggars at the cross-roads,
And held a hollow hand among the others.
MARY
What, did you beg?
SHEMUS
I had no chance to beg,
For when the beggars saw me they cried out
They would not have another share their alms,
And hunted me away with sticks and stones.
TEIG
You said that you would bring us food or money.
SHEMUS
What's in the house?
TEIG
A bit of mouldy bread.
MARY
There's flour enough to make another loaf.
TEIG
And when that's gone?
MARY
There is the hen in the coop.
SHEMUS
My curse upon the beggars, my curse upon them!
TEIG
And the last penny gone.
SHEMUS
When the hen's gone,
What can we do but live on sorrel and dock,
And dandelion, till our mouths are green?
MARY
God, that to this hour's found bit and sup,
Will cater for us still.
SHEMUS
His kitchen's bare.
There were five doors that I looked through this day
And saw the dead and not a soul to wake them.
MARY
Maybe He'd have us die because He knows,
When the ear is stopped and when the eye is stopped,
That every wicked sight is hid from the eye,
And all fool talk from the ear.
SHEMUS
Who's passing there?
And mocking us with music?
(_A stringed instrument without. _)
TEIG
A young man plays it,
There's an old woman and a lady with him.
SHEMUS
What is the trouble of the poor to her?
Nothing at all or a harsh radishy sauce
For the day's meat.
MARY
God's pity on the rich.
Had we been through as many doors, and seen
The dishes standing on the polished wood
In the wax candle light, we'd be as hard,
And there's the needle's eye at the end of all.
SHEMUS
My curse upon the rich.
TEIG
They're coming here.
SHEMUS
Then down upon that stool, down quick, I say,
And call up a whey face and a whining voice,
And let your head be bowed upon your knees.
MARY
Had I but time to put the place to rights.
(CATHLEEN, OONA, _and_ ALEEL _enter_. )
CATHLEEN
God save all here. There is a certain house,
An old grey castle with a kitchen garden,
A cider orchard and a plot for flowers,
Somewhere among these woods.
MARY
We know it, lady.
A place that's set among impassable walls
As though world's trouble could not find it out.
CATHLEEN
It may be that we are that trouble, for we--
Although we've wandered in the wood this hour--
Have lost it too, yet I should know my way,
For I lived all my childhood in that house.
MARY
Then you are Countess Cathleen?
CATHLEEN
And this woman,
Oona, my nurse, should have remembered it,
For we were happy for a long time there.
OONA
The paths are overgrown with thickets now,
Or else some change has come upon my sight.
CATHLEEN
And this young man, that should have known the woods--
Because we met him on their border but now,
Wandering and singing like a wave of the sea--
Is so wrapped up in dreams of terrors to come
That he can give no help.
MARY
You have still some way,
But I can put you on the trodden path
Your servants take when they are marketing.
But first sit down and rest yourself awhile,
For my old fathers served your fathers, lady,
Longer than books can tell--and it were strange
If you and yours should not be welcome here.
CATHLEEN
And it were stranger still were I ungrateful
For such kind welcome--but I must be gone,
For the night's gathering in.
SHEMUS
It is a long while
Since I've set eyes on bread or on what buys it.
CATHLEEN
So you are starving even in this wood,
Where I had thought I would find nothing changed.
But that's a dream, for the old worm o' the world
Can eat its way into what place it pleases.
(_She gives money. _)
TEIG
Beautiful lady, give me something too;
I fell but now, being weak with hunger and thirst
And lay upon the threshold like a log.
