Listen
to W. B Yeats reading his own poetry in the video above. Yeats made
these recordings for the wireless in 1932, 1934 and the last on
28 October 1937 when he was 72. He died on January 28 1939. The
photograph shows him sitting before the microphone in 1937.
Yeats's
poetry can be seen as consisting of three phases: Early, Middle, and Late.
In Yeats's
early poetry, up to the volume, In the
Seven Woods (1904), we can see the influences of English
Romanticism, the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and Symbolism. Two further
influences were the occult and the languorous world of the Celtic
twilight poets of the 1890s.
Yeats saw
himself as writing for Ireland and out of an Irish poetic tradition.
However, his Ireland is the shadowy world of Celtic legend, rather
than a contemporary reality. "The
Song of Wandering Aengus" captures the essence of
Yeats's early poetry.
Yeats's middle
period poetry can be read in the volumes from The
Green Helmet (1910) to Michael Robartes
and the Dancer (1921). Subject matter and attitude change.
Love is dealt with in a more direct, questioning manner. Yeats still
writes about Ireland, but it has become a real Ireland aspects of
which irritate or puzzle him by their complexity. He now writes
about real events, such as the death of Robert Gregory; and real
people (Lady Gregory) and real places (Coole Park). With these changes
comes a noticeable change in style from the meditative rhythms of
the earlier verse to the more muscular rhythms and tighter syntax
of this middle period. We can hear this new distinctive voice in
the two poems below, "No Second Troy"
and "Easter 1916".
The final phase of Yeats's poetry begins with "The
Tower" (1928). Yeats constructs himself as a very self-conscious
bard in poems like "The Tower"
and "Sailing to Byzantium".
He publicly celebrates Ireland's culture which he sees embodied
in Coole Park and Lady Gregory and which for him become emblematic
of a nostalgically remembered Anglo-Irish Ascendancy dispensation.
He contemplates old age and its difficulties, and meditates on the
function of art in life. Yeats was also an Irish Senator, reflected
in the poem, "Among School Children",
together with "Sailing to Byzantium",
can serve as exemplary verse from the last phase of Yeats's poetry.
A brief selection of Yeats's poetry
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,
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.
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,
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:
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,
For
the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
He
wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
Had
I the heaven's 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.
THE
SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS
I
WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread:
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though
I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
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,
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?
EASTER
1916
I
HAVE met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That
woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts
with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.
Too
long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse-
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly
A terrible beauty is born
