In the Seven Woods E-Book

W.b.yeats

• Herausgeber: Interactive Media
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

"In the Seven Woods" by W.B. Yeats ventures into the mystical realms of Irish folklore, myth, and the poet's personal introspection. Through evocative verses, Yeats explores themes of love, nature, and the human experience. The collection, inspired by the ancient Ogham alphabet, delves into the complexities of identity and spirituality. Rich in symbolism and lyrical beauty, the poems navigate the intersections of the mundane and the magical, inviting readers to ponder the profound mysteries woven into the fabric of existence. Yeats crafts a poetic tapestry that resonates with the echoes of Ireland's past while reaching towards the ethereal possibilities of the future.

Leseprobe

W. B. Yeats

In the Seven Woods

New Edition

LONDON ∙ NEW YORK ∙ TORONTO ∙ SAO PAULO ∙ MOSCOW

PARIS ∙ MADRID ∙ BERLIN ∙ ROME ∙ MEXICO CITY ∙ MUMBAI ∙ SEOUL ∙ DOHA

TOKYO ∙ SYDNEY ∙ CAPE TOWN ∙ AUCKLAND ∙ BEIJING

New Edition

Published by Sovereign Classic

This Edition

First published in 2019

Copyright © 2019 Sovereign Classic

All Rights Reserved.

ISBN: 9781787360082

Contents

IN THE SEVEN WOODS

THE OLD AGE OF QUEEN MAEVE.

BAILE AND AILLINN.

THE ARROW.

THE FOLLY OF BEING COMFORTED.

THE WITHERING OF THE BOUGHS.

ADAM’S CURSE.

THE SONG OF RED HANRAHAN.

THE OLD MEN ADMIRING THEMSELVES IN THE WATER.

UNDER THE MOON.

THE PLAYERS ASK FOR A BLESSING ON THE PSALTERIES AND THEMSELVES.

THE RIDER FROM THE NORTH.

ON BAILE’S STRAND: A PLAY.

IN THE SEVEN WOODS

IN THE SEVEN WOODS: BEING

POEMS CHIEFLY OF THE

IRISH HEROIC AGE.

IN THE SEVEN WOODS.

I have heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods

Make their faint thunder, and the garden bees

Hum in the lime tree flowers; and put away

The unavailing outcries and the old bitterness

That empty the heart. I have forgot awhile

Tara uprooted, and new commonness

Upon the throne and crying about the streets

And hanging its paper flowers from post to post,

Because it is alone of all things happy.

I am contented for I know that Quiet

Wanders laughing and eating her wild heart

Among pigeons and bees, while that Great Archer,

Who but awaits His hour to shoot, still hangs

A cloudy quiver over Parc-na-Lee.

August, 1902.

THE OLD AGE OF QUEEN MAEVE.

Maeve the great queen was pacing to and fro,

Between the walls covered with beaten bronze,

In her high house at Cruachan; the long hearth,

Flickering with ash and hazel, but half showed

Where the tired horse-boys lay upon the rushes,

Or on the benches underneath the walls,

In comfortable sleep; all living slept

But that great queen, who more than half the night

Had paced from door to fire and fire to door.

Though now in her old age, in her young age

She had been beautiful in that old way

That’s all but gone; for the proud heart is gone

And the fool heart of the counting-house fears all

But soft beauty and indolent desire.

She could have called over the rim of the world

Whatever woman’s lover had hit her fancy,

And yet had been great bodied and great limbed,

Fashioned to be the mother of strong children;

And she’d had lucky eyes and a high heart,

And wisdom that caught fire like the dried flax,

At need, and made her beautiful and fierce,

Sudden and laughing.

O unquiet heart,

Why do you praise another, praising her,

As if there were no tale but your own tale

Worth knitting to a measure of sweet sound?

Have I not bid you tell of that great queen

Who has been buried some two thousand years?

When night was at its deepest, a wild goose

Cried from the porter’s lodge, and with long clamour

Shook the ale horns and shields upon their hooks;

But the horse-boys slept on, as though some power

Had filled the house with Druid heaviness;

And wondering who of the many changing Sidhe

Had come as in the old times to counsel her,

Maeve walked, yet with slow footfall being old,

To that small chamber by the outer gate.

The porter slept although he sat upright

With still and stony limbs and open eyes.

Maeve waited, and when that ear-piercing noise

Broke from his parted lips and broke again,

She laid a hand on either of his shoulders,

And shook him wide awake, and bid him say

Who of the wandering many-changing ones

Had troubled his sleep. But all he had to say

Was that, the air being heavy and the dogs

More still than they had been for a good month,

He had fallen asleep, and, though he had dreamed nothing,

He could remember when he had had fine dreams.

It was before the time of the great war

Over the White-Horned Bull, and the Brown Bull.

She turned away; he turned again to sleep

That no god troubled now, and, wondering

What matters were afoot among the Sidhe,

Maeve walked through that great hall, and with a sigh

Lifted the curtain of her sleeping room,

Remembering that she too had seemed divine

To many thousand eyes, and to her own

One that the generations had long waited

That work too difficult for mortal hands

Might be accomplished. Bunching the curtain up

She saw her husband Ailell sleeping there,

And thought of days when he’d had a straight body,

And of that famous Fergus, Nessa’s husband,

Who had been the lover of her middle life.

Suddenly Ailell spoke out of his sleep,

And not with his own voice or a man’s voice,

But with the burning, live, unshaken voice

Of those that it may be can never age.

He said, ‘High Queen of Cruachan and Mag Ai

A king of the Great Plain would speak with you.’

And with glad voice Maeve answered him, ‘What King

Of the far wandering shadows has come to me?

As in the old days when they would come and go

About my threshold to counsel and to help.’

The parted lips replied, ‘I seek your help,

For I am Aengus and I am crossed in love.’

‘How may a mortal whose life gutters out

Help them that wander with hand clasping hand

By rivers where nor rain nor hail has dimmed

Their haughty images, that cannot fade

Although their beauty’s like a hollow dream.’

‘I come from the undimmed rivers to bid you call

The children of the Maines out of sleep,

And set them digging into Anbual’s hill.

We shadows, while they uproot his earthy house,

Will overthrow his shadows and carry off

Caer, his blue eyed daughter that I love.

I helped your fathers when they built these walls

And I would have your help in my great need,

Queen of high Cruachan.’

‘I obey your will

With speedy feet and a most thankful heart:

For you have been, O Aengus of the birds,