W.B. Yeats: Selected Poems

W. B.

Yeats Selected Poems

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Our mission at Charybdis Press is to publish books of poetry, art and literature. Charybdis Press believes in the necessity of these art forms to enrich our everday lives and to help access our creative potential. It is our desire to promote classic and contemporary works by poets, artists, and writers in dynamic books that showcase their talents and open a dialogue for change and exchange with our readers.

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The editors of the Read More Poetry Series understand that because poetry is no longer taught in schools or critically reviewed as a viable art form, new readers, unfamiliar with poetry’s demands, will find the world of poetry difficult to access. The Read More Poetry Series was created to bring poetry to the public in a portable and affordable form to make poetry more accessible and to open the door to the rich resources of our poetic heritage.

“The mystical life is the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.”

–Yeats

Contents from Crossways (1889) The Stolen Child from The Rose (1893) The Lake Isle of Innisfree When You Are Old from The Wind Among the Reeds (1899) He Remembers Forgotten Beauty A Poet to His Beloved He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven from In the Seven Woods (1904) Adam’s Curse From The Green Helmet and Other Poems (1910) No Second Troy The Fascination of What’s Difficult From Responsibilities (1914) September 1913 Beggar to Beggar Cried A Coat From The Wild Swans at Coole (1919) The Wild Swans at Coole Lines Written in Dejection From Michael Robartes and the Dancer (1921) Demon and Beast The Second Coming

The Stolen Child Where dips the rocky highland Of Sleuth Wood in the lake, There lies a leafy island Where flapping herons wake The drowsy water-rats; There we’ve hid our faery vats, Full of berries And of reddest stolen cherries.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses The dim grey sands with light, Far off by furthest Rosses We foot it all the night, Weaving olden dances, Mingling hands and mingling glances Till the moon has taken flight; To and fro we leap And chase the frothy bubbles, 3

While the world is full of troubles And is anxious in its sleep.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes From the hills above Glen-Car, In pools among the rushes That scarce could bathe a star, We seek for slumbering trout And whispering in their ears Give them unquiet dreams; Leaning softly out From ferns that drop their tears Over the young streams.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he’s going, The solemn-eyed: 4

He’ll hear no more the lowing Of the calves on the warm hillside Or the kettle on the hob Sing peace into his breast, Or see the brown mice bob Round and round the oatmeal-chest.

For he comes, the human child, To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, From a world more full of weeping than he can understand.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, 5

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

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

When You Are Old When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

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He Remembers Forgotten Beauty When my arms wrap you round I press My heart upon the loveliness That has long faded from the world; The jewelled crowns that kings have hurled In shadowy pools, when armies fled; The love-tales wrought with silken thread By dreaming ladies upon cloth That has made fat the murderous moth; The roses that of old time were Woven by ladies in their hair, The dew-cold lilies ladies bore Through many a sacred corridor Where such grey clouds of incense rose That only God’s eyes did not close: For that pale breast and lingering hand Come from a more dream-heavy land, A more dream-heavy hour than this; And when you sigh from kiss to kiss I hear white Beauty sighing, too, For hours when all must fade like dew.

But flame on flame, and deep on deep, Throne over throne where in half sleep, 7

Their swords upon their iron knees, Brood her high lonely mysteries.

A Poet to His Beloved I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams, White woman that passion has worn As the tide wears the dove-grey sands, And with heart more old than the horn That is brimmed from the pale fire of time: White woman with numberless dreams, I bring you my passionate rhyme.

He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

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

I said, ‘A line will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought, Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

Better go down upon your marrow-bones And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather; For to articulate sweet sounds together Is to work harder than all these, and yet Be thought an idler by the noisy set Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen The martyrs call the world.’

And thereupon That beautiful mild woman for whose sake There’s many a one shall find out all heartache On finding that her voice is sweet and low Replied, ‘To be born woman is to know— Although they do not talk of it at school— That we must labour to be beautiful.’

I said, ‘It’s certain there is no fine thing 9

Since Adam’s fall but needs much labouring.

There have been lovers who thought love should be So much compounded of high courtesy That they would sigh and quote with learned looks Precedents out of beautiful old books; Yet now it seems an idle trade enough.’

We sat grown quiet at the name of love; We saw the last embers of daylight die, And in the trembling blue-green of the sky A moon, worn as if it had been a shell Washed by time’s waters as they rose and fell About the stars and broke in days and years.

I had a thought for no one’s but your ears: That you were beautiful, and that I strove To love you in the old high way of love; That it had all seemed happy, and yet we’d grown As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.

No Second Troy Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, 10

Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire?

What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this, Being high and solitary and most stern?

Why, what could she have done, being what she is?

Was there another Troy for her to burn?

The Fascination of What’s Difficult The fascination of what’s difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content Out of my heart. There’s something ails our colt That must, as if it had not holy blood Nor on Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud, Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and jolt As though it dragged road-metal. My curse on plays That have to be set up in fifty ways, On the day’s war with every knave and dolt, Theatre business, management of men.

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I swear before the dawn comes round again I’ll find the stable and pull out the bolt.

September 1913 What need you, being come to sense, But fumble in a greasy till And add the halfpence to the pence And prayer to shivering prayer, until You have dried the marrow from the bone?

For men were born to pray and save: Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, It’s with O’Leary in the grave.

Yet they were of a different kind, The names that stilled your childish play, They have gone about the world like wind, But little time had they to pray For whom the hangman’s rope was spun, And what, God help us, could they save?

Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, It’s with O’Leary in the grave.

Was it for this the wild geese spread 12

The grey wing upon every tide; For this that all that blood was shed, For this Edward Fitzgerald died, And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone, All that delirium of the brave?

Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, It’s with O’Leary in the grave.

Yet could we turn the years again, And call those exiles as they were In all their loneliness and pain, You’d cry, ‘Some woman’s yellow hair Has maddened every mother’s son’: They weighed so lightly what they gave.

But let them be, they’re dead and gone, They’re with O’Leary in the grave.

Beggar to Beggar Cried ‘Time to put off the world and go somewhere And find my health again in the sea air,’ Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, ‘And make my soul before my pate is bare.’

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‘And get a comfortable wife and house To rid me of the devil in my shoes,’ Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, ‘And the worse devil that is between my thighs.’

‘And though I’d marry with a comely lass, She need not be too comely—let it pass,’ Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, ‘But there’s a devil in a looking-glass.’

‘Nor should she be too rich, because the rich Are driven by wealth as beggars by the itch,’ Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, ‘And cannot have a humorous happy speech.’

‘And there I’ll grow respected at my ease, And hear amid the garden’s nightly peace.’

Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, ‘The wind-blown clamour of the barnacle-geese.’

A Coat I made my song a coat 14

Covered with embroideries Out of old mythologies From heel to throat; But the fools caught it, Wore it in the world’s eyes As though they’d wrought it.

Song, let them take it, For there’s more enterprise In walking naked.

The Wild Swans at Coole The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine-and-fifty swans.

The nineteenth autumn has come upon me Since I first made my count; I saw, before I had well finished, All suddenly mount 15

And scatter wheeling in great broken rings Upon their clamorous wings.

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, And now my heart is sore.

All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight, The first time on this shore, The bell-beat of their wings above my head, Trod with a lighter tread.

Unwearied still, lover by lover, They paddle in the cold Companionable streams or climb the air; Their hearts have not grown old; Passion or conquest, wander where they will, Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water, Mysterious, beautiful; Among what rushes will they build, By what lake’s edge or pool Delight men’s eyes when I awake some day To find they have flown away?

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

All the wild witches, those most noble ladies, For all their broom-sticks and their tears, Their angry tears are gone.

The holy centaurs of the hills have vanished; I have nothing but the embittered sun; Banished heroic mother moon and vanished, And now that I have come to fifty years I must endure the timid sun.

Demon and Beast For certain minutes at the least That crafty demon and that loud beast That plague me day and night Ran out of my sight; Though I had long perned in the gyre, Between my hatred and desire.

I saw my freedom won 17

And all laugh in the sun.

The glittering eyes in a death’s head Of old Luke Wadding’s portrait said Welcome, and the Ormondes all Nodded upon the wall, And even Strafford smiled as though It made him happier to know I understood his plan.

Now that the loud beast ran There was no portrait in the Gallery But beckoned to sweet company, For all men’s thoughts grew clear Being dear as mine are dear.

But soon a tear-drop started up, For aimless joy had made me stop Beside the little lake To watch a white gull take A bit of bread thrown up into the air; Now gyring down and perning there He splashed where an absurd Portly green-pated bird Shook off the water from his back; Being no more demoniac A stupid happy creature 18

Could rouse my whole nature.

Yet I am certain as can be That every natural victory Belongs to beast or demon, That never yet had freeman Right mastery of natural things, And that mere growing old, that brings Chilled blood, this sweetness brought; Yet have no dearer thought Than that I may find out a way To make it linger half a day.

O what a sweetness strayed Through barren Thebaid, Or by the Mareotic sea When that exultant Anthony And twice a thousand more Starved upon the shore And withered to a bag of bones!

What had the Caesars but their thrones?

The Second Coming Turning and turning in the widening gyre 19

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

Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

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

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William Butler Yeats

(June 13, 1865 - January 28, 1939)

Yeats’s poetry stands at the crossroads between the flesh and the spirit, the physical and the metaphysical.

Yeats understood the needs of the mundane body that struggles in the real world for its daily bread, just as he understood the ire of his native landsman and the sociopolitical problems facing Irish nationalism. And though he understood these issues and wrote about them, he distanced himself from them, even as they became material for his poetry, because, for Yeats, there was another world, a pure and heroic world of myth and folklore, where the supernatural could be glimpsed and gleaned through the dense and brute world of matter.

Yeats had a vision of the beyond that animated all things and he sought to pierce the veil to reveal and tap this source. He did this rather unsuccessfully through the spiritual mediums of seances and automatic writing but succeeded with the magical incantations of his poetry.

This collection spans most of Yeats’s career and includes many of his famous poems as well as some lesser known ones, providing a brief but broad view of his oeuvre.

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