Responsibilities, and other poems E-Book

W.b.yeats

• Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

In "Responsibilities, and other poems," W. B. Yeats presents a profound exploration of the tension between personal desire and social obligation, reflecting the complexities of the human condition in early 20th-century Ireland. The collection showcases Yeats's mastery of imagery and rhythm, adopting a more modernist approach compared to his earlier works. Transitioning from the romanticism of his youth, Yeats crafts a poignant response to contemporary issues, utilizing symbols and allegory to delve into themes of love, aging, and the struggle for identity amidst shifting societal landscapes. W. B. Yeats (1865-1939), a towering figure in modern literature, was deeply influenced by the political tumult and cultural revival of his time. His involvement with the Irish Literary Revival and the Theosophical movement shaped his worldview, enriching his poetic voice with philosophical and spiritual undertones. Yeats's personal experiences, including his tumultuous relationships and his fascination with folklore, similarly inform his poignant reflections on existential themes in this collection. "Responsibilities, and other poems" is a must-read for those seeking a nuanced understanding of the intersection between the individual and the collective. Yeats invites readers into a reflective journey that challenges prevailing norms, making this work both a literary treasure and a profound commentary on the human experience.

Leseprobe

W. B. Yeats

Responsibilities, and other poems

Published by Good Press, 2022

[email protected]

EAN 4057664637130

Table of Contents

THE GREY ROCK

THE TWO KINGS

TO A WEALTHY MAN WHO PROMISED A SECOND SUBSCRIPTION TO THE DUBLIN MUNICIPAL GALLERY IF IT WERE PROVED THE PEOPLE WANTED PICTURES

SEPTEMBER 1913

TO A FRIEND WHOSE WORK HAS COME TO NOTHING

PAUDEEN

TO A SHADE

WHEN HELEN LIVED

THE ATTACK ON 'THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD,' 1907

THE THREE BEGGARS

THE THREE HERMITS

BEGGAR TO BEGGAR CRIED

THE WELL AND THE TREE

RUNNING TO PARADISE

THE HOUR BEFORE DAWN

THE PLAYER QUEEN

(Song from an Unfinished Play)

THE REALISTS

I

THE WITCH

II

THE PEACOCK

THE MOUNTAIN TOMB

TO A CHILD DANCING IN THE WIND

I

II

A MEMORY OF YOUTH

FALLEN MAJESTY

FRIENDS

THE COLD HEAVEN

THAT THE NIGHT COME

AN APPOINTMENT

I

THE MAGI

II

THE DOLLS

A COAT

[CLOSING RHYMES]

HIS DREAM

A WOMAN HOMER SUNG

THE CONSOLATION

NO SECOND TROY

RECONCILIATION

KING AND NO KING

PEACE

AGAINST UNWORTHY PRAISE

THE FASCINATION OF WHAT'S DIFFICULT

A DRINKING SONG

THE COMING OF WISDOM WITH TIME

ON HEARING THAT THE STUDENTS OF OUR NEW UNIVERSITY HAVE JOINED THE ANCIENT ORDER OF HIBERNIANS AND THE AGITATION AGAINST IMMORAL LITERATURE

TO A POET, WHO WOULD HAVE ME PRAISE CERTAIN BAD POETS, IMITATORS OF HIS AND MINE

THE MASK

UPON A HOUSE SHAKEN BY THE LAND AGITATION

AT THE ABBEY THEATRE

(Imitated from Ronsard)

THESE ARE THE CLOUDS

AT GALWAY RACES

A FRIEND'S ILLNESS

ALL THINGS CAN TEMPT ME

THE YOUNG MAN'S SONG

THE HOUR-GLASS

BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

Pardon, old fathers, if you still remain

Somewhere in ear-shot for the story's end,

Old Dublin merchant 'free of ten and four'

Or trading out of Galway into Spain;

And country scholar, Robert Emmet's friend,

A hundred-year-old memory to the poor;

Traders or soldiers who have left me blood

That has not passed through any huxter's loin,

Pardon, and you that did not weigh the cost,

Old Butlers when you took to horse and stood

Beside the brackish waters of the Boyne

Till your bad master blenched and all was lost;

You merchant skipper that leaped overboard

After a ragged hat in Biscay Bay,

You most of all, silent and fierce old man

Because you were the spectacle that stirred

My fancy, and set my boyish lips to say

'Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun';

Pardon that for a barren passion's sake,

Although I have come close on forty-nine

I have no child, I have nothing but a book,

Nothing but that to prove your blood and mine.

January 1914.

THE GREY ROCK

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Poets with whom I learned my trade,

Companions of the Cheshire Cheese,

Here's an old story I've re-made,

Imagining 'twould better please

Your ears than stories now in fashion,

Though you may think I waste my breath

Pretending that there can be passion

That has more life in it than death,

And though at bottling of your wine

The bow-legged Goban had no say;

The moral's yours because it's mine.

When cups went round at close of day—

Is not that how good stories run?—

Somewhere within some hollow hill,

If books speak truth in Slievenamon,

But let that be, the gods were still

And sleepy, having had their meal,

And smoky torches made a glare

On painted pillars, on a deal

Of fiddles and of flutes hung there

By the ancient holy hands that brought them

From murmuring Murias, on cups—

Old Goban hammered them and wrought them,

And put his pattern round their tops

To hold the wine they buy of him.

But from the juice that made them wise

All those had lifted up the dim

Imaginations of their eyes,

For one that was like woman made

Before their sleepy eyelids ran

And trembling with her passion said,

'Come out and dig for a dead man,

Who's burrowing somewhere in the ground,

And mock him to his face and then

Hollo him on with horse and hound,

For he is the worst of all dead men.'

We should be dazed and terror struck,

If we but saw in dreams that room,

Those wine-drenched eyes, and curse our luck

That emptied all our days to come.

I knew a woman none could please,

Because she dreamed when but a child

Of men and women made like these;

And after, when her blood ran wild,

Had ravelled her own story out,

And said, 'In two or in three years

I need must marry some poor lout,'

And having said it burst in tears.

Since, tavern comrades, you have died,

Maybe your images have stood,

Mere bone and muscle thrown aside,

Before that roomful or as good.

You had to face your ends when young—

'Twas wine or women, or some curse—

But never made a poorer song

That you might have a heavier purse,

Nor gave loud service to a cause

That you might have a troop of friends.

You kept the Muses' sterner laws,

And unrepenting faced your ends,

And therefore earned the right—and yet

Dowson and Johnson most I praise—

To troop with those the world's forgot,

And copy their proud steady gaze.

'The Danish troop was driven out

Between the dawn and dusk,' she said;

'Although the event was long in doubt,

Although the King of Ireland's dead

And half the kings, before sundown

All was accomplished.'

'When this day

Murrough, the King of Ireland's son,

Foot after foot was giving way,

He and his best troops back to back

Had perished there, but the Danes ran,

Stricken with panic from the attack,

The shouting of an unseen man;

And being thankful Murrough found,

Led by a footsole dipped in blood

That had made prints upon the ground,

Where by old thorn trees that man stood;

And though when he gazed here and there,

He had but gazed on thorn trees, spoke,

"Who is the friend that seems but air

And yet could give so fine a stroke?"

Thereon a young man met his eye,

Who said, "Because she held me in

Her love, and would not have me die,

Rock-nurtured Aoife took a pin,

And pushing it into my shirt,

Promised that for a pin's sake,

No man should see to do me hurt;

But there it's gone; I will not take

The fortune that had been my shame

Seeing, King's son, what wounds you have."

'Twas roundly spoke, but when night came

He had betrayed me to his grave,

For he and the King's son were dead.

I'd promised him two hundred years,

And when for all I'd done or said—

And these immortal eyes shed tears—

He claimed his country's need was most,

I'd save his life, yet for the sake

Of a new friend he has turned a ghost.

What does he care if my heart break?

I call for spade and horse and hound

That we may harry him.' Thereon

She cast herself upon the ground

And rent her clothes and made her moan:

'Why are they faithless when their might

Is from the holy shades that rove

The grey rock and the windy light?

Why should the faithfullest heart most love

The bitter sweetness of false faces?

Why must the lasting love what passes,

Why are the gods by men betrayed!'

But thereon every god stood up

With a slow smile and without sound,

And stretching forth his arm and cup

To where she moaned upon the ground,

Suddenly drenched her to the skin;

And she with Goban's wine adrip,

No more remembering what had been,

Stared at the gods with laughing lip.

I have kept my faith, though faith was tried,

To that rock-born, rock-wandering foot,

And the world's altered since you died,

And I am in no good repute

With the loud host before the sea,

That think sword strokes were better meant

Than lover's music—let that be,

So that the wandering foot's content.

THE TWO KINGS

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King Eochaid came at sundown to a wood

Westward of Tara. Hurrying to his queen

He had out-ridden his war-wasted men

That with empounded cattle trod the mire;

And where beech trees had mixed a pale green light

With the ground-ivy's blue, he saw a stag

Whiter than curds, its eyes the tint of the sea.

Because it stood upon his path and seemed

More hands in height than any stag in the world

He sat with tightened rein and loosened mouth

Upon his trembling horse, then drove the spur;

But the stag stooped and ran at him, and passed,

Rending the horse's flank. King Eochaid reeled

Then drew his sword to hold its levelled point

Against the stag. When horn and steel were met

The horn resounded as though it had been silver,

A sweet, miraculous, terrifying sound.

Horn locked in sword, they tugged and struggled there

As though a stag and unicorn were met

In Africa on Mountain of the Moon,

Until at last the double horns, drawn backward,

Butted below the single and so pierced

The entrails of the horse. Dropping his sword