The Collected Poems of WB Yeats PDF ´ The Collected

The Collected Poems of WB Yeats The Collected Poems of W B Yeats includes all of the poems authorized by Yeats for inclusion in his standard canon Breathtaking in range it encompasses the entire arc of his career from luminous reworking of ancient Irish myths and legends to passionate meditations on the demands and rewards of youth and old age from exuisite occasionally whimsical songs of love nature and art to somber and angry poems of life in a nation torn by war and uprising In observing the development of rich and recurring images and themes over the course of his body of work we can trace the uest of this century's greatest poet to unite intellect and artistry in a single magnificent visionRevised and corrected this edition includes Yeat's own notes on his poetry complemented by explanatory notes from esteemed Yeats scholar Richard J Finneran My favourite piece of Yeats which I've known since I was a teenager I've never really figured out what it means but I think it's wonderful all the sameRose of all Roses Rose of all the World You too have come where the dim tides are hurled Upon the wharves of sorrow and heard ring The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing Beauty grown sad with its eternity Made you of us and of the dim grey sea Our long ships loose thought woven sails and wait For God has bid them share an eual fate; And when at last defeated in His wars They have gone down under the same white stars We shall no longer hear the little cry Of our sad hearts that may not live nor die The Collected Poems of WB Yeats The Collected Works of WB Yeats #1 WB Yeats Richard J Finneran EditorTo a child dancing in the wind Dance there upon the shore;What need have you to careFor wind or water's roarAnd tumble out your hairThat the salt drops have wet;Being young you have not knownThe fool's triumph nor yetLove lost as soon as wonNor the best labourer deadAnd all the sheaves to bindWhat need have you to dreadThe monstrous crying of the windتاریخ نخستین خوانش بیست و نهم آگوست سال 2013 میلادیعنوان دریانوردی به سمت بیزانس؛ نویسنده و شاعر وی‍ل‍ی‍ام‌ ب‍ات‍ل‍ر ی‍ی‍ت‍س‌؛ مترجم رزا جمالی؛تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 21041399هجری خورشیدی؛ ا شربیانی For books continue each other in spite of our habit of judging them separately This uote from Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One's Own comes to my mind when I sit down to have a closer look at one of my favourite poets For it wasn’t Yeats I was searching for when I went through my shelves today It was Things Fall Apart Chinua Achebe’s classic novel Seeing Yeats in the shelf however I remembered that the title is from his famous poem “The Second Coming” and I opened the earmarked poetry collection full of post its and comments And sure enough there was a pink post it showing the way to the lines I wanted“Turning and turning in the widening gyreThe falcon cannot hear the falconer;Things fall apart the centre cannot holdMere anarchy is loosed upon the worldThe blood dimmed tide is loosed and everywhereThe ceremony of innocence is drowned;”Knowing the story of Things Fall Apart it makes my heart break to think of the proud falcon in his natural habitat suddenly threatened by the falconer with his sly methods and superior weapons killing out of pleasure a careless sportsmanship This story in my mind takes a leap to present times seeing it is still just as relevant in many places and I am mourning the contemporary falcon’s lost spirit in a world of falconers destroying things because they can The centre cannot holdReading on I get curious to see where all my sticky notes indicate that my attention was sharpened and of course I find my handwriting next to a poem on a young man going to war How could I not reading this the last time in conjunction with The Poems Of Wilfred Owen“An Irish Airman Foresees his DeathI know that I shall meet my fateSomewhere among the clouds above;Those that I fight I do not hateThose that I guard I do not love;”The sad truth of World War I best expressed maybe in poetry or novels like All uiet on the Western Front And as a counterpoint with a sticky note in a different colour“On Being Asked For A War PoemI think it better that in times like theseA poet’s mouth be silent for in truthWe have no gift to set a statesman right;He has had enough of meddling who can pleaseA young girl in the indolence of her youthOr an old man upon a winter’s night”I remember pondering on the conundrum of accepting these lines as perfect truth while also being grateful that Yeats had not remained silent after all that he had expressed his thoughts over and over again in dramatic long narrative poems and short lyrical ones in stories of common people and kings and ueens in real life poems and fairy tales He had not been silent at all but he resisted the command to produce poetry for politicians to shout out the ancient heroic ideal “dulce et decorum est pro patria mori” before sending soldiers to living hell He wrote his own truth and that of the island he loved and the culture he cherished To review all his poems and make them justice would be a life time’s work My favourite love poem is to be found in his collection as well“When You are OldWhen you are old and grey and full of sleepAnd nodding by the fire take down this bookAnd slowly read and dream of the soft lookYour eyes had once and of their shadows deep;How many loved your moments of glad graceAnd loved your beauty with love false or trueBut one man loved the pilgrim soul in you And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing barsMurmur a little sadly how love fledAnd paced upon the mountains overheadAnd hid his face amid a crowd of stars”I can’t read that often enough “The pilgrim soul in you” sends a shiver down my spine every single time Before I close the collection my eye catches a poem that is not earmarked yet that I must have read without thinking much about it last time But now it yells out its truth to me in a disturbing way“Why should not Old Men be Mad”Why should not old men be madSome have known a likely ladThat had a sound fly fisher’s wristTurn to a drunken journalist;A girl that knew all Dante onceLive to bear children to a dunce;A Helen of social welfare dreamClimb on a wagonette and screamSome think it a matter of course that chanceShould starve good men and bad advanceThat if their neighbours figured plainAs though upon a lighted screenNo single story would they findOf an unbroken happy mindA finish worthy of the startYoung men know nothing of this sortObservant old men know it well;And when they know what old books tellAnd that no better can be hadKnow why an old man should be mad”It may be a sign of me getting older that I identify and with the disillusion of experience but at the same time reading poetry like this makes me feel passionately involved in life stillYeats is a timeless treat Not everything in here works for me but Yeats is never less than a pleasure to read As others have remarked upon he's what one might describe as a proper poet his rhythmic structure and rhymes flow off of the reading tongue—and at his best he cannot be touched for the ariose beauty of his lyrical genius Before the World Was MadeIf I make the lashes dark And the eyes bright And the lips scarlet Or ask if all be right From mirror after mirror No vanity's displayed I'm looking for the face I had Before the world was made What if I look upon a man As though on my beloved And my blood be cold the while And my heart unmoved Why should he think me cruel Or that he is betrayed I'd have him love the thing that was Before the world was made One of my favourites below a lengthy verse that captures the very essence of disillusion amidst the wreckage of an apparent bounty of promise and progression Yeats rises to the heights yet wielding the language of ash and benightment; no paens to the fey primordiality of Eire here but rather poesy shaped with withering power Nineteen Hundred and NineteenIMany ingenious lovely things are goneThat seemed sheer miracle to the multitudeprotected from the circle of the moonThat pitches common things about There stoodAmid the ornamental bronze and stoneAn ancient image made of olive wood And gone are Phidias' famous ivoriesAnd all the golden grasshoppers and beesWe too had many pretty toys when youngA law indifferent to blame or praiseTo bribe or threat; habits that made old wrongMelt down as it were wax in the sun's rays;Public opinion ripening for so longWe thought it would outlive all future daysO what fine thought we had because we thoughtThat the worst rogues and rascals had died outAll teeth were drawn all ancient tricks unlearnedAnd a great army but a showy thing;What matter that no cannon had been turnedInto a ploughshare Parliament and kingThought that unless a little powder burnedThe trumpeters might burst with trumpetingAnd yet it lack all glory; and perchanceThe guardsmen's drowsy chargers would not pranceNow days are dragon ridden the nightmareRides upon sleep a drunken soldieryCan leave the mother murdered at her doorTo crawl in her own blood and go scot free;The night can sweat with terror as beforeWe pieced our thoughts into philosophyAnd planned to bring the world under a ruleWho are but weasels fighting in a holeHe who can read the signs nor sink unmannedInto the half deceit of some intoxicantFrom shallow wits; who knows no work can standWhether health wealth or peace of mind were spentOn master work of intellect or handNo honour leave its mighty monumentHas but one comfort left all triumph wouldBut break upon his ghostly solitudeBut is there any comfort to be foundMan is in love and loves what vanishesWhat is there to say That country roundNone dared admit if Such a thought were hisIncendiary or bigot could be foundTo burn that stump on the AcropolisOr break in bits the famous ivoriesOr traffic in the grasshoppers or beesIIWhen Loie Fuller's Chinese dancers enwoundA shining web a floating ribbon of clothIt seemed that a dragon of airHad fallen among dancers had whirled them roundOr hurried them off on its own furious path;So the platonic YearWhirls out new right and wrongWhirls in the old instead;All men are dancers and their treadGoes to the barbarous clangour of a gongIIISome moralist or mythological poetCompares the solitary soul to a swan;I am satisfied with thatSatisfied if a troubled mirror show itBefore that brief gleam of its life be goneAn image of its state;The wings half spread for flightThe breast thrust out in prideWhether to play or to rideThose winds that clamour of approaching nightA man in his own secret meditationIs lost amid the labyrinth that he has madeIn art or politics;Some Platonist affirms that in the stationWhere we should cast off body and tradeThe ancient habit sticksAnd that if our works couldBut vanish with our breathThat were a lucky deathFor triumph can but mar our solitudeThe swan has leaped into the desolate heavenThat image can bring wildness bring a rageTo end all things to endWhat my laborious life imagined evenThe half imagined the half written page;O but we dreamed to mendWhatever mischief seemedTo afflict mankind but nowThat winds of winter blowLearn that we were crack pated when we dreamedIVWe who seven years agoTalked of honour and of truthShriek with pleasure if we showThe weasel's twist the weasel's toothVCome let us mock at the greatThat had such burdens on the mindAnd toiled so hard and lateTo leave some monument behindNor thought of the levelling windCome let us mock at the wise;With all those calendars whereonThey fixed old aching eyesThey never saw how seasons runAnd now but gape at the sunCome let us mock at the goodThat fancied goodness might be gayAnd sick of solitudeMight proclaim a holidayWind shrieked and where are theyMock mockers after thatThat would not lift a hand maybeTo help good wise or greatTo bar that foul storm out for weTraffic in mockeryVIViolence upon the roads violence of horses;Some few have handsome riders are garlandedOn delicate sensitive ear or tossing maneBut wearied running round and round in their coursesAll break and vanish and evil gathers headHerodias' daughters have returned againA sudden blast of dusty wind and afterThunder of feet tumult of imagesTheir purpose in the labyrinth of the wind;And should some crazy hand dare touch a daughterAll turn with amorous cries or angry criesAccording to the wind for all are blindBut now wind drops dust settles; thereuponThere lurches past his great eyes without thoughtUnder the shadow of stupid straw pale locksThat insolent fiend Robert ArtissonTo whom the love lorn Lady Kyteler broughtBronzed peacock feathers red combs of her cocks

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