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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Seven Poems and a Fragment + +Author: William Butler Yeats + +Release Date: April 12, 2010 [EBook #31959] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEVEN POEMS AND A FRAGMENT *** + + + + +Produced by Marius Masi, Meredith Bach and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>SEVEN POEMS AND A FRAGMENT</h2> +<h2>BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS.</h2> +<hr class="full" /> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img style="border:0; width:350px; height:337px" + src="images/img1.jpg" + alt="" /> +</div> + + +<h4>THE CUALA PRESS<br /> +DUNDRUM<br /> +MCMXXII</h4> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h3>TABLE OF CONTENTS</h3> + +<table class="nobctr" width="90%" summary="Contents"> + +<tr style="font-size: 70%; "> <td> </td> + <td class="tc2">PAGE</td> </tr> + +<tr><td class="tc3">All Souls’ Night</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page1">1</a></td> </tr> + +<tr><td class="tc3">Suggested by a Picture of a Black Centaur</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page6">6</a></td> </tr> + +<tr><td class="tc3">Thoughts upon the Present State of the World</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page7">7</a></td> </tr> + +<tr><td class="tc3">The New Faces</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page14">14</a></td> </tr> + +<tr><td class="tc3">A Prayer for My Son</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page14">14</a></td> </tr> + +<tr><td class="tc3">Cuchulain the Girl and the Fool</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page16">16</a></td> </tr> + +<tr><td class="tc3">The Wheel</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page18">18</a></td> </tr> + +<tr><td class="tc3">A New End for ‘The King’s Threshold’</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page18">18</a></td> </tr> + +<tr><td class="tc3 pt2" colspan="2">NOTES</td> </tr> + +<tr><td class="tc3">Note on ‘Thoughts Upon the Present State of the World’ Section Six</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page23">23</a></td> </tr> + +<tr><td class="tc3">Note on The New End to ‘The King’s Threshold’</td> + <td class="tc2b"><a href="#page24">24</a></td> </tr></table> + +<div class="pt3"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page1" id="page1"></a>1</span></p> + +<h2>SEVEN POEMS AND A FRAGMENT: BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS.</h2> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h3>ALL SOULS’ NIGHT</h3> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>’Tis All Souls’ Night and the great Christ Church bell,</p> +<p>And many a lesser bell, sound through the room,</p> +<p>For it is now midnight;</p> +<p>And two long glasses brimmed with muscatel</p> +<p>Bubble upon the table. A ghost may come,</p> +<p>For it is a ghost’s right,</p> +<p>His element is so fine</p> +<p>Being sharpened by his death,</p> +<p>To drink from the wine-breath</p> +<p>While our gross palates drink from the whole wine.</p> + +<p class="s">I need some mind that, if the cannon sound</p> +<p>From every quarter of the world, can stay</p> +<p>Wound in mind’s pondering,</p> +<p>As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound;</p> +<p>Because I have a marvellous thing to say,</p> +<p>A certain marvellous thing</p> +<p>None but the living mock,</p> +<p>Though not for sober ear;</p> +<p>It may be all that hear</p> +<p>Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock.</p> + +<p class="s"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page2" id="page2"></a>2</span></p> +<p>H—’s the first I call. He loved strange thought</p> +<p>And knew that sweet extremity of pride</p> +<p>That’s called platonic love,</p> +<p>And that to such a pitch of passion wrought</p> +<p>Nothing could bring him, when his lady died,</p> +<p>Anodyne for his love.</p> +<p>Words were but wasted breath;</p> +<p>One dear hope had he:</p> +<p>The inclemency</p> +<p>Of that or the next winter would be death.</p> + +<p class="s">Two thoughts were so mixed up I could not tell</p> +<p>Whether of her or God he thought the most,</p> +<p>But think that his mind’s eye,</p> +<p>When upward turned, on one sole image fell,</p> +<p>And that a slight companionable ghost,</p> +<p>Wild with divinity,</p> +<p>Had so lit up the whole</p> +<p>Immense miraculous house,</p> +<p>The Bible promised us,</p> +<p>It seemed a gold-fish swimming in a bowl.</p> + +<p class="s"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page3" id="page3"></a>3</span></p> +<p>On Florence Emery I call the next,</p> +<p>Who finding the first wrinkles on a face</p> +<p>Admired and beautiful,</p> +<p>And knowing that the future would be vexed</p> +<p>With ’minished beauty, multiplied commonplace,</p> +<p>Preferred to teach a school,</p> +<p>Away from neighbour or friend</p> +<p>Among dark skins, and there</p> +<p>Permit foul years to wear</p> +<p>Hidden from eyesight to the unnoticed end.</p> + +<p class="s">Before that end much had she ravelled out</p> +<p>From a discourse in figurative speech</p> +<p>By some learned Indian</p> +<p>On the soul’s journey. How it is whirled about,</p> +<p>Wherever the orbit of the moon can reach,</p> +<p>Until it plunged into the sun;</p> +<p>And there free and yet fast,</p> +<p>Being both Chance and Choice,</p> +<p>Forget its broken toys</p> +<p>And sink into its own delight at last.</p> + +<p class="s"><span class="pagenum"><a name="page4" id="page4"></a>4</span></p> +<p>And I call up MacGregor from the grave,</p> +<p>For in my first hard springtime we were friends,</p> +<p>Although of late estranged.</p> +<p>I thought him half a lunatic, half knave,</p> +<p>And told him so, but friendship never ends;</p> +<p>And what if mind seem changed,</p> +<p>And it seem changed with the mind,</p> +<p>When thoughts rise up unbid</p> +<p>On generous things that he did</p> +<p>And I grow half contented to be blind.</p> + +<p class="s">He had much industry at setting out,</p> +<p>Much boisterous courage, before loneliness</p> +<p>Had driven him crazed;</p> +<p>For meditations upon unknown thought</p> +<p>Make human intercourse grow less and less;</p> +<p>They are neither paid nor praised.</p> +<p>But he’d object to the host,</p> +<p>The glass because my glass;</p> +<p>A ghost-lover he was</p> +<p>And may have grown more arrogant being a ghost.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page5" id="page5"></a>5</span></p> +<p class="s">But names are nothing. What matter who it be,</p> +<p>So that his elements have grown so fine</p> +<p>The fume of muscatel</p> +<p>Can give his sharpened palate ecstasy</p> +<p>No living man can drink from the whole wine.</p> +<p>I have mummy truths to tell</p> +<p>Whereat the living mock,</p> +<p>Though not for sober ear,</p> +<p>For maybe all that hear</p> +<p>Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock.</p> + +<p class="s">Such thought—such thought have I that hold it tight</p> +<p>Till meditation master all its parts,</p> +<p>Nothing can stay my glance</p> +<p>Until that glance run in the world’s despite</p> +<p>To where the damned have howled away their hearts,</p> +<p>And where the blessed dance;</p> +<p>Such thought, that in it bound</p> +<p>I need no other thing</p> +<p>Wound in mind’s wandering,</p> +<p>As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound.</p> +</div> +</td></tr></table> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page6" id="page6"></a>6</span></p> +<h3>SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF A BLACK +CENTAUR</h3> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood,</p> +<p>Even where the horrible green parrots call and swing.</p> +<p>My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud.</p> +<p>I knew that horse play, knew it for a murderous thing.</p> +<p>What wholesome sun has ripened is wholesome food to eat</p> +<p>And that alone, yet I being driven half insane</p> +<p>Because of some green wing, gathered old mummy wheat</p> +<p>In the mad abstract dark and ground it grain by grain</p> +<p>And after baked it slowly in an oven; but now</p> +<p>I bring full flavoured wine out of a barrel found</p> +<p>Where seven Ephesian topers slept and never knew</p> +<p>When Alexander’s empire past, they slept so sound.</p> +<p>Stretch out your limbs and sleep a long Saturnian sleep;</p> +<p>I have loved you better than my soul for all my words,</p> +<p>And there is none so fit to keep a watch and keep</p> +<p>Unwearied eyes upon those horrible green birds.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page7" id="page7"></a>7</span></p> +<h3>THOUGHTS UPON THE PRESENT +STATE OF THE WORLD.</h3> + + +<h5>I</h5> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>Many ingenious lovely things are gone</p> +<p>That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude;</p> +<p>Above the murderous treachery of the moon</p> +<p>Or all that wayward ebb and flow. There stood</p> +<p>Amid the ornamental bronze and stone</p> +<p>An ancient image made of olive wood;</p> +<p>And gone are Phidias’ carven ivories</p> +<p>And all his golden grasshoppers and bees.</p> + +<p class="s">We too had many pretty toys when young;</p> +<p>A law indifferent to blame or praise</p> +<p>To bribe or threat; habits that made old wrong</p> +<p>Melt down, as it were wax in the sun’s rays;</p> +<p>Public opinion ripening for so long</p> +<p>We thought it would outlive all future days.</p> +<p>O what fine thought we had because we thought</p> +<p>That the worst rogues and rascals had died out.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page8" id="page8"></a>8</span></p> +<p class="s">All teeth were drawn, all ancient tricks unlearned,</p> +<p>And a great army but a showy thing;</p> +<p>What matter that no cannon had been turned</p> +<p>Into a ploughshare; parliament and king</p> +<p>Thought that unless a little powder burned</p> +<p>The trumpeters might burst with trumpeting</p> +<p>And yet it lack all glory; and perchance</p> +<p>The guardsmen’s drowsy chargers would not prance.</p> + +<p class="s">Now days are dragon-ridden, the nightmare</p> +<p>Rides upon sleep: a drunken soldiery</p> +<p>Can leave the mother, murdered at her door,</p> +<p>To crawl in her own blood, and go scot-free;</p> +<p>The night can sweat with terror as before</p> +<p>We pieced our thoughts into philosophy,</p> +<p>And planned to bring the world under a rule</p> +<p>Who are but weasels fighting in a hole.</p> + +<p class="s">He who can read the signs nor sink unmanned</p> +<p>Into the half-deceit of some intoxicant</p> +<p>From shallow wits, who knows no work can stand,</p> +<p>Whether health, wealth or peace of mind were spent</p> +<p>On master work of intellect or hand,</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page9" id="page9"></a>9</span></p> +<p>No honour leave its mighty monument,</p> +<p>Has but one comfort left: all triumph would</p> +<p>But break upon his ghostly solitude.</p> + +<p class="s">And other comfort were a bitter wound:</p> +<p>To be in love and love what vanishes.</p> +<p>Greeks were but lovers; all that country round</p> +<p>None dared admit, if such a thought were his,</p> +<p>Incendiary or bigot could be found</p> +<p>To burn that stump on the Acropolis,</p> +<p>Or break in bits the famous ivories</p> +<p>Or traffic in the grasshoppers or bees?</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<h5>II</h5> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>When Loie Fuller’s Chinese dancers enwound</p> +<p>A shining web, a floating ribbon of cloth,</p> +<p>It seemed that a dragon of air</p> +<p>Had fallen among dancers, had whirled them round</p> +<p>Or hurried them off on its own furious path;</p> +<p>So the platonic year</p> +<p>Whirls out new right and wrong</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page10" id="page10"></a>10</span></p> +<p>Whirls in the old instead;</p> +<p>All men are dancers and their tread</p> +<p>Goes to the barbarous clangour of gong.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<h5>III</h5> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>Some moralist or mythological poet</p> +<p>Compares the solitary soul to a swan;</p> +<p>I am content with that,</p> +<p>Contented that a troubled mirror show it</p> +<p>Before that brief gleam of its life be gone,</p> +<p>An image of its state;</p> +<p>The wings half spread for flight,</p> +<p>The breast thrust out in pride</p> +<p>Whether to play or to ride</p> +<p>Those winds that clamour of approaching night.</p> + +<p class="s">A man in his own secret meditation</p> +<p>Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made</p> +<p>In art or politics;</p> +<p>Some platonist affirms that in the station</p> +<p>Where we should cast off body and trade</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page11" id="page11"></a>11</span></p> +<p>The ancient habit sticks,</p> +<p>And that if our works could</p> +<p>But vanish with our breath</p> +<p>That were a lucky death,</p> +<p>For triumph can but mar our solitude.</p> + +<p class="s">The swan has leaped into the desolate heaven:</p> +<p>That image can bring wildness, bring a rage</p> +<p>To end all things, to end</p> +<p>What my laborious life imagined, even</p> +<p>The half imagined, the half written page;</p> +<p>O but we dreamed to mend</p> +<p>Whatever mischief seemed</p> +<p>To afflict mankind, but now</p> +<p>That winds of winter blow</p> +<p>Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<h5>IV</h5> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>We, who seven years ago</p> +<p>Talked of honour and of truth,</p> +<p>Shriek with pleasure if we show</p> +<p>The weasel’s twist, the weasel’s tooth.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page12" id="page12"></a>12</span></p> +<h5>V</h5> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>Come let us mock at the great</p> +<p>That had such burdens on the mind</p> +<p>And toiled so hard and late</p> +<p>To leave some monument behind,</p> +<p>Nor thought of the levelling wind.</p> + +<p class="s">Come let us mock at the wise;</p> +<p>With all those calendars whereon</p> +<p>They fixed old aching eyes,</p> +<p>They never saw how seasons run,</p> +<p>And now but gape at the sun.</p> + +<p class="s">Come let us mock at the good</p> +<p>That fancied goodness might be gay,</p> +<p>Grown tired of their solitude,</p> +<p>Upon some brand-new happy day:</p> +<p>Wind shrieked—and where are they?</p> + +<p class="s">Mock mockers after that</p> +<p>That would not lift a hand maybe</p> +<p>To help good, wise or great</p> +<p>To bar that foul storm out, for we</p> +<p>Traffic in mockery.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page13" id="page13"></a>13</span></p> +<h5>VI</h5> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>Violence upon the roads: violence of horses;</p> +<p>Some few have handsome riders, are garlanded</p> +<p>On delicate sensitive ear or tossing mane,</p> +<p>But wearied running round and round in their courses</p> +<p>All break and vanish, and evil gathers head:</p> +<p>Herodias’ daughters have returned again</p> +<p>A sudden blast of dusty wind and after</p> +<p>Thunder of feet, tumult of images,</p> +<p>Their purpose in the labyrinth of the wind;</p> + +<p class="s">And should some crazy hand dare touch a daughter</p> +<p>All turn with amorous cries, or angry cries,</p> +<p>According to the wind, for all are blind.</p> +<p>But now wind drops, dust settles; thereupon</p> +<p>There lurches past, his great eyes without thought</p> +<p>Under the shadow of stupid straw-pale locks,</p> +<p>That insolent fiend Robert Artisson</p> +<p>To whom the love-lorn Lady Kyteler brought</p> +<p>Bronzed peacock feathers, red combs of her cocks.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page14" id="page14"></a>14</span></p> +<h3>THE NEW FACES</h3> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>If you, that have grown old were the first dead</p> +<p>Neither Caltapa tree nor scented lime</p> +<p>Should hear my living feet, nor would I tread</p> +<p>Where we wrought that shall break the teeth of time.</p> +<p>Let the new faces play what tricks they will</p> +<p>In the old rooms; night can outbalance day,</p> +<p>Our shadows rove the garden gravel still,</p> +<p>The living seem more shadowy than they.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h3>A PRAYER FOR MY SON</h3> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>Bid a strong ghost stand at the head</p> +<p>That my Michael may sleep sound,</p> +<p>Nor cry, nor turn in the bed</p> +<p>Till his morning meal come round;</p> +<p>And may departing twilight keep</p> +<p>All dread afar till morning’s back</p> +<p>That his mother may not lack</p> +<p>Her fill of sleep.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page15" id="page15"></a>15</span></p> +<p class="s">Bid the ghost have sword in hand:</p> +<p>There are malicious things, although</p> +<p>Few dream that they exist,</p> +<p>Who have planned his murder, for they know</p> +<p>Of some most haughty deed or thought</p> +<p>That waits upon his future days,</p> +<p>And would through hatred of the bays</p> +<p>Bring that to nought.</p> + +<p class="s">Though You can fashion everything</p> +<p>From nothing every day, and teach</p> +<p>The morning stars to sing,</p> +<p>You have lacked articulate speech</p> +<p>To tell Your simplest want, and known,</p> +<p>Wailing upon a woman’s knee,</p> +<p>All of that worst ignominy</p> +<p>Of flesh and bone;</p> + +<p class="s">And when through all the town there ran</p> +<p>The servants of Your enemy</p> +<p>A woman and a man,</p> +<p>Unless the Holy Writings lie,</p> +<p>Have borne You through the smooth and rough</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page16" id="page16"></a>16</span></p> +<p>And through the fertile and waste,</p> +<p>Protecting till the danger past</p> +<p>With human love.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h3>CUCHULAIN THE GIRL AND THE FOOL</h3> + + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p class="r">THE GIRL.</p> + +<p>I am jealous of the looks men turn on you</p> +<p>For all men love your worth; and I must rage</p> +<p>At my own image in the looking-glass</p> +<p>That’s so unlike myself that when you praise it</p> +<p>It is as though you praise another, or even</p> +<p>Mock me with praise of my mere opposite;</p> +<p>And when I wake towards morn I dread myself</p> +<p>For the heart cries that what deception wins</p> +<p>My cruelty must keep; and so begone</p> +<p>If you have seen that image and not my worth.</p> + +<p class="r">CUCHULAIN.</p> + +<p>All men have praised my strength but not my worth.</p> + +<p class="r">THE GIRL.</p> + +<p>If you are no more strength than I am beauty</p> +<p>I will find out some cavern in the hills</p> +<p>And live among the ancient holy men,</p> +<p>For they at least have all men’s reverence</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page17" id="page17"></a>17</span></p> +<p>And have no need of cruelty to keep</p> +<p>What no deception won.</p> + +<p class="r">CUCHULAIN.</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 7em;">I have heard them say</p> +<p>That men have reverence for their holiness</p> +<p>And not their worth.</p> + +<p class="r">THE GIRL.</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 5em;">God loves us for our worth;</p> +<p>But what care I that long for a man’s love.</p> + +<p class="r">THE FOOL BY THE ROADSIDE.</p> + +<p>When my days that have</p> +<p>From cradle run to grave</p> +<p>From grave to cradle run instead;</p> +<p>When thoughts that a fool</p> +<p>Has wound upon a spool</p> +<p>Are but loose thread, are but loose thread;</p> + +<p class="s">When cradle and spool are past</p> +<p>And I mere shade at last</p> +<p>Coagulate of stuff</p> +<p>Transparent like the wind,</p> +<p>I think that I may find</p> +<p>A faithful love, a faithful love.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page18" id="page18"></a>18</span></p> +<h3>THE WHEEL</h3> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p>Through winter-time we call on spring,</p> +<p>And through the spring on summer call,</p> +<p>And when abounding hedges sing</p> +<p>Declare that winter’s best of all;</p> +<p>And after that there’s nothing good</p> +<p>Because the spring-time has not come—</p> +<p>Nor know that what disturbs our blood</p> +<p>Is but its longing for the tomb.</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + + + +<hr class="art" /> +<h3>A NEW END FOR ‘THE KING’S THRESHOLD’</h3> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> +<div class="poemr"> + +<p class="r">YOUNGEST PUPIL.</p> + +<p>Die Seanchan and proclaim the right of the poets.</p> + +<p class="r">SEANCHAN.</p> + +<p>Come nearer me, that I may know how face</p> +<p>Differs from face, and touch you with my hands.</p> +<p>O more than kin, O more than children could be,</p> +<p>For children are but born out of our blood</p> +<p>And share our frailty. O my chicks, my chicks,</p> +<p>That I have nourished underneath my wings</p> +<p>And fed upon my soul. (He stands up and begins to walk</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page19" id="page19"></a>19</span></p> +<p>down steps) I need no help.</p> +<p>He needs no help that joy has lifted up</p> +<p>Like some miraculous beast out of Ezekiel.</p> +<p>The man that dies has the chief part in the story,</p> +<p>And I will mock and mock and mock that image yonder</p> +<p>That evil picture in the sky—no, no—</p> +<p>I have all my strength again, I will outface it.</p> +<p>O look upon the moon that’s standing there</p> +<p>In the blue daylight—notice her complexion</p> +<p>Because it is the white of leprosy</p> +<p>And the contagion that afflicts mankind</p> +<p>Falls from the moon. When I and these are dead</p> +<p>We should be carried to some windy hill</p> +<p>To lie there with uncovered face awhile</p> +<p>That mankind and that leper there may know</p> +<p>Dead faces laugh.</p> +<p>(He falls and then half rises.)</p> +<p style="margin-left: 6em;">King, king, dead faces laugh.</p> +<p>(He dies)</p> + +<p class="r">OLDEST PUPIL.</p> + +<p>King, king, he is dead; some strange triumphant thought</p> +<p>So filled his heart with joy that it has burst</p> +<p>Being grown too mighty for our frailty,</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page20" id="page20"></a>20</span></p> +<p>And we who gaze grow like him and abhor</p> +<p>The moments that come between us and that death</p> +<p>You promised us.</p> + +<p class="r">KING.</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 7em;">Take up his body.</p> +<p>Go where you please and lay it where you please,</p> +<p>So that I cannot see his face or any</p> +<p>That cried him towards his death.</p> + +<p class="r">YOUNGEST PUPIL.</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 14em;">Dead faces laugh!</p> +<p>The ancient right is gone, the new remains</p> +<p>And that is death.</p> +<p>(They go towards the king holding out their halters)</p> +<p style="margin-left: 15em;">We are impatient men,</p> +<p>So gather up the halters in your hands.</p> + +<p class="r">KING.</p> + +<p>Drive them away.</p> +<p>(He goes into the palace. The soldiers block the way before</p> +<p>the pupils.)</p> + +<p class="r">SOLDIER.</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 14em;">Here is no place for you,</p> +<p>For he and his pretensions now are finished.</p> +<p>Begone before the men at arms are bidden</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page21" id="page21"></a>21</span></p> +<p>To hurl you from the door.</p> + +<p class="r">OLDEST PUPIL.</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 15em;">Take up his body</p> +<p>And cry that driven from the populous door</p> +<p>He seeks high waters and the mountain birds</p> +<p>To claim a portion of their solitude.</p> +<p>(They make a litter with cloak and staffs and lay Seanchan</p> +<p>on it.)</p> + +<p class="r">YOUNGEST PUPIL.</p> + +<p>And cry that when they took his ancient right</p> +<p>They took all common sleep; therefore he claims</p> +<p>The mountain for his mattress and his pillow.</p> + +<p class="r">OLDEST PUPIL.</p> + +<p>And there he can sleep on, not noticing</p> +<p>Although the world be changed from worse to worse,</p> +<p>Amid the changeless clamour of the curlew.</p> +<p>(They raise the litter on their shoulders and move a few steps)</p> + +<p class="r">YOUNGEST PUPIL.</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 12em;">(motioning to them to stop)</p> +<p>Yet make triumphant music; sing aloud</p> +<p>For coming times will bless what he has blessed</p> +<p>And curse what he has cursed.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page22" id="page22"></a>22</span></p> +<p class="r">OLDEST PUPIL.</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 16em;">No, no, be still;</p> +<p>Or pluck a solemn music from the strings.</p> +<p>You wrong his greatness speaking so of triumph.</p> + +<p class="r">YOUNGEST PUPIL.</p> + +<p>O silver trumpets, be you lifted up</p> +<p>And cry to the great race that is to come.</p> +<p>Long-throated swans upon the waves of time</p> +<p>Sing loudly, for beyond the wall of the world</p> +<p>That race may hear our music and awake.</p> + +<p class="r">OLDEST PUPIL.</p> + +<p>(motioning the musicians to lower their trumpets)</p> +<p>Not what it leaves behind it in the light</p> +<p>But what it carries with it to the dark</p> +<p>Exalts the soul; nor song nor trumpet-blast</p> +<p>Can call up races from the worsening world</p> +<p>To mend the wrong and mar the solitude</p> +<p>Of the great shade we follow to the tomb.</p> +<p>(Fedelm and the pupils go out carrying the litter. Some play</p> +<p>a mournful music.)</p> + +</div> +</td></tr></table> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page23" id="page23"></a>23</span></p> +<h3>NOTE ON ‘THOUGHTS UPON THE PRESENT +STATE OF THE WORLD’ SECTION +SIX.</h3> + + +<p>The country people see at times certain apparitions +whom they name now ‘fallen angels’ now ‘ancient +inhabitants of the country,’ and describe as riding +at whiles ‘with flowers upon the heads of the horses.’ +I have assumed in the sixth poem that these horsemen, +now that the times worsen, give way to worse. +My last symbol Robert Artisson was an evil spirit +much run after in Kilkenny at the start of the fourteenth +century. Are not those who travel in the +whirling dust also in the Platonic Year?—W. B. Y.</p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page24" id="page24"></a>24</span></p> +<h3>NOTE ON THE NEW END TO ‘THE +KING’S THRESHOLD’</h3> + + +<p>Upon the revival of this play at the Abbey Theatre +a few weeks ago it was played with this new end. +There were a few other changes. I had originally +intended to end the play tragically and would have +done so but for a friend who used to say ‘O do write +comedy & have a few happy moments in the Theatre.’ +My unhappy moments were because a tragic +effect is very fragile and a wrong intonation, or even +a wrong light or costume will spoil it all. However +the play remained always of the nature of tragedy +and so subject to vicissitude.</p> + + +<div class="pt2"> </div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page25" id="page25"></a>25</span></p> + +<p style="margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%;">Here ends, ‘Seven Poems and a Fragment:’ +by William Butler Yeats: with +a decoration by T. Sturge Moore. Five +hundred copies of this book have been +printed and published by Elizabeth +Corbet Yeats on paper made in Ireland, +at the Cuala Press, Churchtown, Dundrum, +in the County of Dublin, Ireland. +Finished in the third week of April in +the year nineteen hundred and twenty-two.</p> + +<hr class="full" /> +<div class="pt2"> </div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Seven Poems and a Fragment, by William Butler Yeats + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEVEN POEMS AND A FRAGMENT *** + +***** This file should be named 31959-h.htm or 31959-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/9/5/31959/ + +Produced by Marius Masi, Meredith Bach and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Seven Poems and a Fragment + +Author: William Butler Yeats + +Release Date: April 12, 2010 [EBook #31959] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEVEN POEMS AND A FRAGMENT *** + + + + +Produced by Marius Masi, Meredith Bach and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + SEVEN POEMS AND A FRAGMENT + + BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS. + + + [Illustration] + + THE CUALA PRESS + DUNDRUM + MCMXXII + + + + +TABLE OF CONTENTS + + + All Souls' Night Page 1 + + Suggested by a Picture of a Black Centaur 6 + + Thoughts upon the Present State of the World 7 + + The New Faces 14 + + A Prayer for My Son 14 + + Cuchulain the Girl and the Fool 16 + + The Wheel 18 + + A New End for 'The King's Threshold' 18 + + NOTES + + Note on 'Thoughts Upon the Present State of the + World' Section Six 23 + + Note on The New End to 'The King's Threshold' 24 + + + + +SEVEN POEMS AND A FRAGMENT: BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS. + + + + +ALL SOULS' NIGHT + + + 'Tis All Souls' Night and the great Christ Church bell, + And many a lesser bell, sound through the room, + For it is now midnight; + And two long glasses brimmed with muscatel + Bubble upon the table. A ghost may come, + For it is a ghost's right, + His element is so fine + Being sharpened by his death, + To drink from the wine-breath + While our gross palates drink from the whole wine. + + I need some mind that, if the cannon sound + From every quarter of the world, can stay + Wound in mind's pondering, + As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound; + Because I have a marvellous thing to say, + A certain marvellous thing + None but the living mock, + Though not for sober ear; + It may be all that hear + Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock. + + H--'s the first I call. He loved strange thought + And knew that sweet extremity of pride + That's called platonic love, + And that to such a pitch of passion wrought + Nothing could bring him, when his lady died, + Anodyne for his love. + Words were but wasted breath; + One dear hope had he: + The inclemency + Of that or the next winter would be death. + + Two thoughts were so mixed up I could not tell + Whether of her or God he thought the most, + But think that his mind's eye, + When upward turned, on one sole image fell, + And that a slight companionable ghost, + Wild with divinity, + Had so lit up the whole + Immense miraculous house, + The Bible promised us, + It seemed a gold-fish swimming in a bowl. + + On Florence Emery I call the next, + Who finding the first wrinkles on a face + Admired and beautiful, + And knowing that the future would be vexed + With 'minished beauty, multiplied commonplace, + Preferred to teach a school, + Away from neighbour or friend + Among dark skins, and there + Permit foul years to wear + Hidden from eyesight to the unnoticed end. + + Before that end much had she ravelled out + From a discourse in figurative speech + By some learned Indian + On the soul's journey. How it is whirled about, + Wherever the orbit of the moon can reach, + Until it plunged into the sun; + And there free and yet fast, + Being both Chance and Choice, + Forget its broken toys + And sink into its own delight at last. + + And I call up MacGregor from the grave, + For in my first hard springtime we were friends, + Although of late estranged. + I thought him half a lunatic, half knave, + And told him so, but friendship never ends; + And what if mind seem changed, + And it seem changed with the mind, + When thoughts rise up unbid + On generous things that he did + And I grow half contented to be blind. + + He had much industry at setting out, + Much boisterous courage, before loneliness + Had driven him crazed; + For meditations upon unknown thought + Make human intercourse grow less and less; + They are neither paid nor praised. + But he'd object to the host, + The glass because my glass; + A ghost-lover he was + And may have grown more arrogant being a ghost. + + But names are nothing. What matter who it be, + So that his elements have grown so fine + The fume of muscatel + Can give his sharpened palate ecstasy + No living man can drink from the whole wine. + I have mummy truths to tell + Whereat the living mock, + Though not for sober ear, + For maybe all that hear + Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock. + + Such thought--such thought have I that hold it tight + Till meditation master all its parts, + Nothing can stay my glance + Until that glance run in the world's despite + To where the damned have howled away their hearts, + And where the blessed dance; + Such thought, that in it bound + I need no other thing + Wound in mind's wandering, + As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound. + + + + +SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF A BLACK CENTAUR + + + Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood, + Even where the horrible green parrots call and swing. + My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud. + I knew that horse play, knew it for a murderous thing. + What wholesome sun has ripened is wholesome food to eat + And that alone, yet I being driven half insane + Because of some green wing, gathered old mummy wheat + In the mad abstract dark and ground it grain by grain + And after baked it slowly in an oven; but now + I bring full flavoured wine out of a barrel found + Where seven Ephesian topers slept and never knew + When Alexander's empire past, they slept so sound. + Stretch out your limbs and sleep a long Saturnian sleep; + I have loved you better than my soul for all my words, + And there is none so fit to keep a watch and keep + Unwearied eyes upon those horrible green birds. + + + + +THOUGHTS UPON THE PRESENT STATE OF THE WORLD. + + +I + + Many ingenious lovely things are gone + That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude; + Above the murderous treachery of the moon + Or all that wayward ebb and flow. There stood + Amid the ornamental bronze and stone + An ancient image made of olive wood; + And gone are Phidias' carven ivories + And all his golden grasshoppers and bees. + + We too had many pretty toys when young; + A law indifferent to blame or praise + To bribe or threat; habits that made old wrong + Melt down, as it were wax in the sun's rays; + Public opinion ripening for so long + We thought it would outlive all future days. + O what fine thought we had because we thought + That the worst rogues and rascals had died out. + + All teeth were drawn, all ancient tricks unlearned, + And a great army but a showy thing; + What matter that no cannon had been turned + Into a ploughshare; parliament and king + Thought that unless a little powder burned + The trumpeters might burst with trumpeting + And yet it lack all glory; and perchance + The guardsmen's drowsy chargers would not prance. + + Now days are dragon-ridden, the nightmare + Rides upon sleep: a drunken soldiery + Can leave the mother, murdered at her door, + To crawl in her own blood, and go scot-free; + The night can sweat with terror as before + We pieced our thoughts into philosophy, + And planned to bring the world under a rule + Who are but weasels fighting in a hole. + + He who can read the signs nor sink unmanned + Into the half-deceit of some intoxicant + From shallow wits, who knows no work can stand, + Whether health, wealth or peace of mind were spent + On master work of intellect or hand, + No honour leave its mighty monument, + Has but one comfort left: all triumph would + But break upon his ghostly solitude. + + And other comfort were a bitter wound: + To be in love and love what vanishes. + Greeks were but lovers; all that country round + None dared admit, if such a thought were his, + Incendiary or bigot could be found + To burn that stump on the Acropolis, + Or break in bits the famous ivories + Or traffic in the grasshoppers or bees? + + +II + + When Loie Fuller's Chinese dancers enwound + A shining web, a floating ribbon of cloth, + It seemed that a dragon of air + Had fallen among dancers, had whirled them round + Or hurried them off on its own furious path; + So the platonic year + Whirls out new right and wrong + Whirls in the old instead; + All men are dancers and their tread + Goes to the barbarous clangour of gong. + + +III + + Some moralist or mythological poet + Compares the solitary soul to a swan; + I am content with that, + Contented that a troubled mirror show it + Before that brief gleam of its life be gone, + An image of its state; + The wings half spread for flight, + The breast thrust out in pride + Whether to play or to ride + Those winds that clamour of approaching night. + + A man in his own secret meditation + Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made + In art or politics; + Some platonist affirms that in the station + Where we should cast off body and trade + The ancient habit sticks, + And that if our works could + But vanish with our breath + That were a lucky death, + For triumph can but mar our solitude. + + The swan has leaped into the desolate heaven: + That image can bring wildness, bring a rage + To end all things, to end + What my laborious life imagined, even + The half imagined, the half written page; + O but we dreamed to mend + Whatever mischief seemed + To afflict mankind, but now + That winds of winter blow + Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed. + + +IV + + 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. + + +V + + Come let us mock at the great + That had such burdens on the mind + And toiled so hard and late + To leave some monument behind, + Nor thought of the levelling wind. + + Come let us mock at the wise; + With all those calendars whereon + They fixed old aching eyes, + They never saw how seasons run, + And now but gape at the sun. + + Come let us mock at the good + That fancied goodness might be gay, + Grown tired of their solitude, + Upon some brand-new happy day: + Wind shrieked--and where are they? + + Mock mockers after that + That would not lift a hand maybe + To help good, wise or great + To bar that foul storm out, for we + Traffic in mockery. + + +VI + + Violence upon the roads: violence of horses; + Some few have handsome riders, are garlanded + On delicate sensitive ear or tossing mane, + But wearied running round and round in their courses + All break and vanish, and evil gathers head: + Herodias' daughters have returned again + A sudden blast of dusty wind and after + Thunder of feet, tumult of images, + Their purpose in the labyrinth of the wind; + + And should some crazy hand dare touch a daughter + All turn with amorous cries, or angry cries, + According to the wind, for all are blind. + But now wind drops, dust settles; thereupon + There lurches past, his great eyes without thought + Under the shadow of stupid straw-pale locks, + That insolent fiend Robert Artisson + To whom the love-lorn Lady Kyteler brought + Bronzed peacock feathers, red combs of her cocks. + + + + +THE NEW FACES + + + If you, that have grown old were the first dead + Neither Caltapa tree nor scented lime + Should hear my living feet, nor would I tread + Where we wrought that shall break the teeth of time. + Let the new faces play what tricks they will + In the old rooms; night can outbalance day, + Our shadows rove the garden gravel still, + The living seem more shadowy than they. + + + + +A PRAYER FOR MY SON + + + Bid a strong ghost stand at the head + That my Michael may sleep sound, + Nor cry, nor turn in the bed + Till his morning meal come round; + And may departing twilight keep + All dread afar till morning's back + That his mother may not lack + Her fill of sleep. + + Bid the ghost have sword in hand: + There are malicious things, although + Few dream that they exist, + Who have planned his murder, for they know + Of some most haughty deed or thought + That waits upon his future days, + And would through hatred of the bays + Bring that to nought. + + Though You can fashion everything + From nothing every day, and teach + The morning stars to sing, + You have lacked articulate speech + To tell Your simplest want, and known, + Wailing upon a woman's knee, + All of that worst ignominy + Of flesh and bone; + + And when through all the town there ran + The servants of Your enemy + A woman and a man, + Unless the Holy Writings lie, + Have borne You through the smooth and rough + And through the fertile and waste, + Protecting till the danger past + With human love. + + + + +CUCHULAIN THE GIRL AND THE FOOL + + + THE GIRL. + + I am jealous of the looks men turn on you + For all men love your worth; and I must rage + At my own image in the looking-glass + That's so unlike myself that when you praise it + It is as though you praise another, or even + Mock me with praise of my mere opposite; + And when I wake towards morn I dread myself + For the heart cries that what deception wins + My cruelty must keep; and so begone + If you have seen that image and not my worth. + + + CUCHULAIN. + + All men have praised my strength but not my worth. + + + THE GIRL. + + If you are no more strength than I am beauty + I will find out some cavern in the hills + And live among the ancient holy men, + For they at least have all men's reverence + And have no need of cruelty to keep + What no deception won. + + + CUCHULAIN. + + I have heard them say + That men have reverence for their holiness + And not their worth. + + + THE GIRL. + + God loves us for our worth; + But what care I that long for a man's love. + + + THE FOOL BY THE ROADSIDE. + + When my days that have + From cradle run to grave + From grave to cradle run instead; + When thoughts that a fool + Has wound upon a spool + Are but loose thread, are but loose thread; + + When cradle and spool are past + And I mere shade at last + Coagulate of stuff + Transparent like the wind, + I think that I may find + A faithful love, a faithful love. + + + + +THE WHEEL + + + Through winter-time we call on spring, + And through the spring on summer call, + And when abounding hedges sing + Declare that winter's best of all; + And after that there's nothing good + Because the spring-time has not come-- + Nor know that what disturbs our blood + Is but its longing for the tomb. + + + + +A NEW END FOR 'THE KING'S THRESHOLD' + + + YOUNGEST PUPIL. + + Die Seanchan and proclaim the right of the poets. + + + SEANCHAN. + + Come nearer me, that I may know how face + Differs from face, and touch you with my hands. + O more than kin, O more than children could be, + For children are but born out of our blood + And share our frailty. O my chicks, my chicks, + That I have nourished underneath my wings + And fed upon my soul. (He stands up and begins to walk + down steps) I need no help. + He needs no help that joy has lifted up + Like some miraculous beast out of Ezekiel. + The man that dies has the chief part in the story, + And I will mock and mock and mock that image yonder + That evil picture in the sky--no, no-- + I have all my strength again, I will outface it. + O look upon the moon that's standing there + In the blue daylight--notice her complexion + Because it is the white of leprosy + And the contagion that afflicts mankind + Falls from the moon. When I and these are dead + We should be carried to some windy hill + To lie there with uncovered face awhile + That mankind and that leper there may know + Dead faces laugh. + (He falls and then half rises.) + King, king, dead faces laugh. + (He dies) + + + OLDEST PUPIL. + + King, king, he is dead; some strange triumphant thought + So filled his heart with joy that it has burst + Being grown too mighty for our frailty, + And we who gaze grow like him and abhor + The moments that come between us and that death + You promised us. + + + KING. + + Take up his body. + Go where you please and lay it where you please, + So that I cannot see his face or any + That cried him towards his death. + + + YOUNGEST PUPIL. + + Dead faces laugh! + The ancient right is gone, the new remains + And that is death. + (They go towards the king holding out their halters) + We are impatient men, + So gather up the halters in your hands. + + + KING. + + Drive them away. + (He goes into the palace. The soldiers block the way before + the pupils.) + + + SOLDIER. + + Here is no place for you, + For he and his pretensions now are finished. + Begone before the men at arms are bidden + To hurl you from the door. + + + OLDEST PUPIL. + + Take up his body + And cry that driven from the populous door + He seeks high waters and the mountain birds + To claim a portion of their solitude. + (They make a litter with cloak and staffs and lay Seanchan + on it.) + + + YOUNGEST PUPIL. + + And cry that when they took his ancient right + They took all common sleep; therefore he claims + The mountain for his mattress and his pillow. + + + OLDEST PUPIL. + + And there he can sleep on, not noticing + Although the world be changed from worse to worse, + Amid the changeless clamour of the curlew. + (They raise the litter on their shoulders and move a few steps) + + + YOUNGEST PUPIL. + + (motioning to them to stop) + Yet make triumphant music; sing aloud + For coming times will bless what he has blessed + And curse what he has cursed. + + + OLDEST PUPIL. + + No, no, be still; + Or pluck a solemn music from the strings. + You wrong his greatness speaking so of triumph. + + + YOUNGEST PUPIL. + + O silver trumpets, be you lifted up + And cry to the great race that is to come. + Long-throated swans upon the waves of time + Sing loudly, for beyond the wall of the world + That race may hear our music and awake. + + + OLDEST PUPIL. + + (motioning the musicians to lower their trumpets) + Not what it leaves behind it in the light + But what it carries with it to the dark + Exalts the soul; nor song nor trumpet-blast + Can call up races from the worsening world + To mend the wrong and mar the solitude + Of the great shade we follow to the tomb. + (Fedelm and the pupils go out carrying the litter. Some play + a mournful music.) + + + + +NOTE ON 'THOUGHTS UPON THE PRESENT STATE OF THE WORLD' SECTION SIX. + + +The country people see at times certain apparitions whom they name now +'fallen angels' now 'ancient inhabitants of the country,' and describe +as riding at whiles 'with flowers upon the heads of the horses.' I have +assumed in the sixth poem that these horsemen, now that the times +worsen, give way to worse. My last symbol Robert Artisson was an evil +spirit much run after in Kilkenny at the start of the fourteenth +century. Are not those who travel in the whirling dust also in the +Platonic Year?--W. B. Y. + + + + +NOTE ON THE NEW END TO 'THE KING'S THRESHOLD' + + +Upon the revival of this play at the Abbey Theatre a few weeks ago it +was played with this new end. There were a few other changes. I had +originally intended to end the play tragically and would have done so +but for a friend who used to say 'O do write comedy & have a few happy +moments in the Theatre.' My unhappy moments were because a tragic effect +is very fragile and a wrong intonation, or even a wrong light or costume +will spoil it all. However the play remained always of the nature of +tragedy and so subject to vicissitude. + + +Here ends, 'Seven Poems and a Fragment:' by William Butler Yeats: +with a decoration by T. Sturge Moore. Five hundred copies of this book +have been printed and published by Elizabeth Corbet Yeats on paper made +in Ireland, at the Cuala Press, Churchtown, Dundrum, in the County of +Dublin, Ireland. 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