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Born and educated in Dublin, Ireland, William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) discovered early in his literary career a fascination with Irish folklore and the occult. Later awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1923, Yeats produced a vast collection of stories, songs, and poetry of Ireland's historical and legendary past. This compilation includes a vast number of works, pie Born and educated in Dublin, Ireland, William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) discovered early in his literary career a fascination with Irish folklore and the occult. Later awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1923, Yeats produced a vast collection of stories, songs, and poetry of Ireland's historical and legendary past. This compilation includes a vast number of works, pieces that have earned Yeats the arguable rank of the greatest poet of his time. The Collected Poetry of William Butler Yeats includes the following collections: "Lyrical,"" The Rose," "The Wind Among The Reeds," "In The Seven Woods," "The Green Helmet and Other Poems," "Responsibilities," "The Wild Swans at Coole," "Michael Robartes and the Dancer," and several other poems.


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Born and educated in Dublin, Ireland, William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) discovered early in his literary career a fascination with Irish folklore and the occult. Later awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1923, Yeats produced a vast collection of stories, songs, and poetry of Ireland's historical and legendary past. This compilation includes a vast number of works, pie Born and educated in Dublin, Ireland, William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) discovered early in his literary career a fascination with Irish folklore and the occult. Later awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1923, Yeats produced a vast collection of stories, songs, and poetry of Ireland's historical and legendary past. This compilation includes a vast number of works, pieces that have earned Yeats the arguable rank of the greatest poet of his time. The Collected Poetry of William Butler Yeats includes the following collections: "Lyrical,"" The Rose," "The Wind Among The Reeds," "In The Seven Woods," "The Green Helmet and Other Poems," "Responsibilities," "The Wild Swans at Coole," "Michael Robartes and the Dancer," and several other poems.

30 review for The Collected Poetry of William Butler Yeats (The Collected Works of W.B. Yeats #1)

  1. 5 out of 5

    Lisa

    "For books continue each other, in spite of our habit of judging them separately." This quote 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 c "For books continue each other, in spite of our habit of judging them separately." This quote 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 gyre 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;...” 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 hold. Reading 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 Death I know that I shall meet my fate Somewhere among the clouds above; Those that I fight I do not hate, Those that I guard I do not love; [...]” The sad truth of World War I, best expressed maybe in poetry or novels like All Quiet on the Western Front. And as a counterpoint, with a sticky note in a different colour: “On Being Asked For A War Poem I think it better that in times like these A poet’s mouth be silent, for in truth We have no gift to set a statesman right; He has had enough of meddling who can please A young girl in the indolence of her youth, Or 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 queens, 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 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.” 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 mad? Some have known a likely lad That had a sound fly-fisher’s wrist Turn to a drunken journalist; A girl that knew all Dante once Live to bear children to a dunce; A Helen of social welfare dream Climb on a wagonette and scream. Some think it a matter of course that chance Should starve good men and bad advance, That if their neighbours figured plain, As though upon a lighted screen, No single story would they find Of an unbroken happy mind, A finish worthy of the start. Young men know nothing of this sort, Observant old men know it well; And when they know what old books tell, And that no better can be had, Know why an old man should be mad.” It may be a sign of me getting older that I identify more and more with the disillusion of experience, but at the same time, reading poetry like this makes me feel passionately involved in life still! Yeats is a timeless treat!

  2. 5 out of 5

    Ahmad Sharabiani

    The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats (The Collected Works of W.B. Yeats #1), W.B. Yeats, Richard J. Finneran (Editor) To a child dancing in the wind Dance there upon the shore; What need have you to care For wind or water's roar? And tumble out your hair That the salt drops have wet; Being young you have not known The fool's triumph, nor yet Love lost as soon as won Nor the best labourer dead And all the sheaves to bind What need have you to dread The monstrous crying of the wind? تاریخ نخستین خوانش: بیست و نهم The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats (The Collected Works of W.B. Yeats #1), W.B. Yeats, Richard J. Finneran (Editor) To a child dancing in the wind Dance there upon the shore; What need have you to care For wind or water's roar? And tumble out your hair That the salt drops have wet; Being young you have not known The fool's triumph, nor yet Love lost as soon as won Nor the best labourer dead And all the sheaves to bind What need have you to dread The monstrous crying of the wind? تاریخ نخستین خوانش: بیست و نهم آگوست سال 2013 میلادی

  3. 4 out of 5

    Szplug

    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 Made If I make the lashes dark And the eyes more bright And the lips more scarlet, Or ask if all be right From mirror after mirror, No vanity's displayed: I'm looking fo 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 Made If I make the lashes dark And the eyes more bright And the lips more 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 Nineteen I. Many ingenious lovely things are gone That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude, protected from the circle of the moon That pitches common things about. There stood Amid the ornamental bronze and stone An ancient image made of olive wood -- And gone are Phidias' famous ivories And all the golden grasshoppers and bees. We too had many pretty toys when young: A law indifferent to blame or praise, To bribe or threat; habits that made old wrong Melt down, as it were wax in the sun's rays; Public opinion ripening for so long We thought it would outlive all future days. O what fine thought we had because we thought That the worst rogues and rascals had died out. All teeth were drawn, all ancient tricks unlearned, And a great army but a showy thing; What matter that no cannon had been turned Into a ploughshare? Parliament and king Thought that unless a little powder burned The trumpeters might burst with trumpeting And yet it lack all glory; and perchance The guardsmen's drowsy chargers would not prance. Now days are dragon-ridden, the nightmare Rides upon sleep: a drunken soldiery Can leave the mother, murdered at her door, To crawl in her own blood, and go scot-free; The night can sweat with terror as before We pieced our thoughts into philosophy, And planned to bring the world under a rule, Who are but weasels fighting in a hole. He who can read the signs nor sink unmanned Into the half-deceit of some intoxicant From shallow wits; who knows no work can stand, Whether health, wealth or peace of mind were spent On master-work of intellect or hand, No honour leave its mighty monument, Has but one comfort left: all triumph would But break upon his ghostly solitude. But is there any comfort to be found? Man is in love and loves what vanishes, What more is there to say? That country round None dared admit, if Such a thought were his, Incendiary or bigot could be found To burn that stump on the Acropolis, Or break in bits the famous ivories Or traffic in the grasshoppers or bees. II. When Loie Fuller's Chinese dancers enwound A shining web, a floating ribbon of cloth, It seemed that a dragon of air Had fallen among dancers, had whirled them round Or hurried them off on its own furious path; So the platonic Year Whirls out new right and wrong, Whirls in the old instead; All men are dancers and their tread Goes to the barbarous clangour of a gong. III Some moralist or mythological poet Compares the solitary soul to a swan; I am satisfied with that, Satisfied if a troubled mirror show it, Before that brief gleam of its life be gone, An image of its state; The wings half spread for flight, The breast thrust out in pride Whether to play, or to ride Those winds that clamour of approaching night. A man in his own secret meditation Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made In art or politics; Some Platonist affirms that in the station Where we should cast off body and trade The ancient habit sticks, And that if our works could But vanish with our breath That were a lucky death, For triumph can but mar our solitude. The swan has leaped into the desolate heaven: That image can bring wildness, bring a rage To end all things, to end What my laborious life imagined, even The half-imagined, the half-written page; O but we dreamed to mend Whatever mischief seemed To afflict mankind, but now That winds of winter blow Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed. IV. We, who seven years ago Talked of honour and of truth, Shriek with pleasure if we show The weasel's twist, the weasel's tooth. V. Come let us mock at the great That had such burdens on the mind And toiled so hard and late To leave some monument behind, Nor thought of the levelling wind. Come let us mock at the wise; With all those calendars whereon They fixed old aching eyes, They never saw how seasons run, And now but gape at the sun. Come let us mock at the good That fancied goodness might be gay, And sick of solitude Might proclaim a holiday: Wind shrieked -- and where are they? Mock mockers after that That would not lift a hand maybe To help good, wise or great To bar that foul storm out, for we Traffic in mockery. VI. Violence upon the roads: violence of horses; Some few have handsome riders, are garlanded On delicate sensitive ear or tossing mane, But wearied running round and round in their courses All break and vanish, and evil gathers head: Herodias' daughters have returned again, A sudden blast of dusty wind and after Thunder of feet, tumult of images, Their purpose in the labyrinth of the wind; And should some crazy hand dare touch a daughter All turn with amorous cries, or angry cries, According to the wind, for all are blind. But now wind drops, dust settles; thereupon There lurches past, his great eyes without thought Under the shadow of stupid straw-pale locks, That insolent fiend Robert Artisson To whom the love-lorn Lady Kyteler brought Bronzed peacock feathers, red combs of her cocks.

  4. 4 out of 5

    Leo .

    Just looking at my bookcase and brushing off some old books covered in dust. Man how did I miss Yeats? Literary genius. 👍🐯

  5. 5 out of 5

    Alexis Hall

    Okay. Cards on the table. I'm not actually that into Yeats. I mean, he's fine, don't get me wrong. Kind of an interesting dude with his Cabalism and his Jacob Black-esque mother-to-daughter romantic transference thing. And some of his poetry I can't deny is pretty impressive stuff: the one about wishing for the cloths of the heaven, and the second coming, and the lake isle of innisfree. All that silver apples of the moon stuff. Very nice. But, honestly, I used to keep this on my bedside table in or Okay. Cards on the table. I'm not actually that into Yeats. I mean, he's fine, don't get me wrong. Kind of an interesting dude with his Cabalism and his Jacob Black-esque mother-to-daughter romantic transference thing. And some of his poetry I can't deny is pretty impressive stuff: the one about wishing for the cloths of the heaven, and the second coming, and the lake isle of innisfree. All that silver apples of the moon stuff. Very nice. But, honestly, I used to keep this on my bedside table in order to look sensitive so arty types would sleep with me. It, uh, did the job. FIVE STARS!

  6. 5 out of 5

    Matt

    Yeats, Yeats, what can you say? Ireland. Mysticism. Longing. Despair. PO-etry! This is a surprisingly consistent, formidable, subtle and wide ranging oeuvre and I'm not the only person to have overheard the suggestion that Yeats was the greatest poet of the 20th Century. Lets not forget the influence. Not only in Ireland but in elsewhere, as part of some variation on the human cultural inheritance. As far as I can tell, there were at least three major (to my mind, anyway) poets who admitted that w Yeats, Yeats, what can you say? Ireland. Mysticism. Longing. Despair. PO-etry! This is a surprisingly consistent, formidable, subtle and wide ranging oeuvre and I'm not the only person to have overheard the suggestion that Yeats was the greatest poet of the 20th Century. Lets not forget the influence. Not only in Ireland but in elsewhere, as part of some variation on the human cultural inheritance. As far as I can tell, there were at least three major (to my mind, anyway) poets who admitted that when they were coming up they didn't just want to be LIKE Yeats, they wanted to BE Yeats, as one of them put it.* I mean, granted, he's insufferably emo (He Mourns the Change That Has Come Upon Him and His Beloved, and He Wishes For The World To End). He's tripping through the daisies, twisting his ankle, breaking his glasses, while he sings to the sun. He can't get over the fact that Maude Gonne won't let him even think about taking her shirt off, but she's a unique, mercurial, assured young woman with a pilgrim soul in her, which her darling poet loves. I mean, He Who Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, When You Are Old, No Second Troy, Down By the Salley Gardens, and on and on... And then there's this: 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 a-flame, 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. You're right there, in a dream, in HIS dream, it's the Song of Wandering Aengus. A whole enchanted world is created, in perfect meter and with metronomyic lullaby. You believe him, somehow, or at least you believe the story. Do you mean to tell me that you doubt Wandering Aengus? Nu-uh. No way. It's in the repetition of the imagery and the phrases in the last few lines. It's the way the whole details of the story are told, unveiled, bit by bit. Just a touch, a glance, a little Keatsian faery girl, a belle dame sans merci with a perfect alibi. The mysticism is there, and it's hazy and, er, full of mist and glowing eyes and faery wings and stolen children and dolphins and mechanical birds in Byzantium and Helen of Troy and eternal roses and astrology and gods incarnating in the form of a swans while they fuck humans and darkness and eternity and "the murderous innocence of the sea"...ruins and secret fountains and rolling hills and caves (WBY slept in one for awhile, you country boys know how it gets when the evenings wind on endlessly under a deep summer sky) and witches and little clay-wattle huts, far from the pavement's gray, by a lazy river deep in Innisfree. And he can get political. I mean, this was a guy whose poetry and drama were front-row-seat essential to the literary lives and times of a centuries-subjugated, colonized, demoralized, quasi-Modern nation that underwent the convulsion of the failure of the Easter Rising in his day, to mention but one event amid the caterwaul of Ireland dragging itself kicking and screaming into the 20th Century. Yeats was a lover not a fighter, no dewy doubt about that, but he grappled with the living nightmare of history with sober eyes and a wide view of the horizon. By the way, that living nightmare bit was deliberate, ifyouknowwhatI'msayin', and rumor has it a cocky, mouthy young lad once approached the smiling public man in the streets and told him that he was too old to talk some sense into him and subsequently absconded to the continent and proceeded to write Dubliners, Portrait and so on and so forth... It's not so much that WBY was afraid or unwilling to enter into the burgeoning roil and confusion of the modern world (Lightbulbs! Radios! Trench Warefare! Relativity! Quantum theory! Dada! Jazz! Ezra Pound! Girls who smoke and gleefully shag sailors and stockbrokers and poets, too, but not poor Willy Yeats, by the looks of things, much to his eternal chagrin...) and his glassy-eyed, bookish haunting of wild Ireland starts to sound more like wish fulfillment or the pleasure principle, I can't remember which. It's more that I think he played a small(ish) but significant part in a larger, more complex, historically embedded and quite bloody awful historical moment. I mean, he had to live with praising the soldier who was married to his beloved (and screwing around on her, btw, for the record) in a stoic and bitter and ruminating poem about a failed rebellion which he definitively supported and he was big enough to bite down hard and publish the thing anyway... No, I think it's ok to give WBY the benefit of the doubt on this one. Mad Ireland hurt him into poetry. He knew damn well that words can have consequences, just like actions, and it's all well and good to huddle up by a candle in the library and proclaim your love for a woman or for the motherland or for Freedom and Justice or whatever but it's quite something else indeed to publicly submit one's statements for the record, when everybody's listening... All that I have said and done, Now that I am old and ill, Turns into a question till I lie awake night after night And never get the answers right. Did that play of mine send out Certain men the English shot? Did words of mine put too great strain On that woman’s reeling brain? Could my spoken words have checked That whereby a house lay wrecked? It takes a lot of sand to ask yourself that question. Then there's this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nXe6Ja... How many times has this been quoted, from all over the body of the poem, particularly in places where its ominousness and austere power of facing, the apocalyptic mood that slowly spreads from word to word, from image to image...the speaker knows all this, somehow, and he is just as overwhelmed by it as anyone else. The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity. 'Twas it not ever thus? Where else? You can go for days. I had a teacher for Irish lit who once remarked, quite off the cuff, that nobody gets more out of a line that WBY. By way of demonstration: That civilisation may not sink, Its great battle lost, Quiet the dog, tehter the pony To a distant post; Our master Caesar is in the tent Where the maps are spread, His eyes fixed upon nothing, A hand upon his head. Like a long-legged fly upon the stream His mind moves upon silence. That the topless towers be burnt And men recall that face, Move most gently if move you must In this lonely place. She thinks, part woman, three parts a child, That nobody looks; her feet Practise a tinker shuffle Picked up on a street. Like a long-legged fly upon the stream Her mind moves upon silence. That girls at puberty may find The first Adam in their thought, Shut the door of the Pope's chapel, Keep those children out. There on that scaffolding resides Michael Angelo. With no more sound than the mice make His hand moves to and fro. Like a long-legged fly upon the stream His mind moves upon silence. You know that feeling you get when poetry happens? That quiet, satisfied hum that you do after the poem has finished, and begins to dissipate into the air. After the visitation. That quiet, hushed, ruminating feeling. Something is happening here and you don't know what it is... My best friend is a big fan of the show Lost. I've never seen it, myself, but it comes highly recommended and all that. The point being, he is fond of quoting the character Dexter, who is (I think) a Scottish guy given to charisma and/or eloquence or something. He's find of quoting Dexter's exultant, exuberant phrase "that's just POETRY, bruther"! I've never heard him *actually* say it, but I think I know what he means. What it is. What he's getting at. What it's all about. And if this stuff isn't it, then count me out of the human race. * Now, granted, the three poets I'm thinking of (Philip Larkin, John Berryman and Delmore Schwartz, if you're keeping score at home- and you should be) were, in their ways, degenerate pathetic alcoholics and therefore their somewhat maudlin affections for WBY might have been some kind of unconscious identification or projection onto the starry-eyed, gnomic singer of ballads and player of harps and whatnot, but still. Influence is a big indicator of admiration, y'see, like imitation and flattery, especially in the notoriously competitive vineyards of literature...

  7. 4 out of 5

    Alan

    I have given hourlong recitations of Yeats's poems, among the easiest to recall in English; for example, his tetrameters in the late "Under Ben Bulben" which contains his epitaph. I defy you to say this aloud three times without knowing most of it by heart: "Whether man dies in his bed,/ Or the rifle knocks him dead,/ A brief parting from those dear/ Is the worst man has to fear." And his own epitaph is memorable, "Cast a cold eye/ On life, on death/ Horseman, pass by!" It is anti-conventional, I have given hourlong recitations of Yeats's poems, among the easiest to recall in English; for example, his tetrameters in the late "Under Ben Bulben" which contains his epitaph. I defy you to say this aloud three times without knowing most of it by heart: "Whether man dies in his bed,/ Or the rifle knocks him dead,/ A brief parting from those dear/ Is the worst man has to fear." And his own epitaph is memorable, "Cast a cold eye/ On life, on death/ Horseman, pass by!" It is anti-conventional, since most epitaphs were written by clergy to scare the readers back to church, like this one in Pittsfield, MA: "Corruption, earth and worms/ Shall but refine this flesh..." etc. I seriously doubt the interred was consulted about that one. Yeats counters, look at this grave, and fogggetaboutit, Pass by! By memory I still have "When you are old," his adaptation of Ronsard, "Lake Isle of Innisfree," so imitative of the water lapping the shores, in its medial caesuras, "I hear lake water lapping...Though I stand on the roadway..I shall arise and go now..." And so interesting that WBY first had a truism, "There noon is all a glimmer, and midnight a purple glow," which he reversed to the memorable, "There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon has a purple glow..." Ahh... a useful trick for writers. (My Ph.D. advisor Leonard Unger noted the influence of Meredith on Innisfree.) "The Second Coming," whose opening I said in my flight fears of landing. The problem in reciting that poem is "The worst are full of passionate intensity." I had to reduce the intensity of my aloudreading. "Sailing to Byzantium," and others. I have also set to music seven of Yeats' poems, including "Brown Penny," "Lullaby," "Her Anxiety," and even "Crazy Jane talks to the Bishop." Some of these tunes, played decades ago, can be heard on my google+ page, no middle initial. Yeats's son Michael, fathered in his late fifties, toured the US in the 70s. A friend in the Berkshires heard him recall his father mainly shooing him from the room to write or recite. Sounds accurate. (Maybe that's why Shakespeare lived in London, his kids in Stratford!) I mentioned learning Yeats at Leonard Unger's knee, but also from Chester Anderson, Joycean and Irish specialist.

  8. 4 out of 5

    Steven Walle

    The poetry was very good but rather depressing. I believe he could have used some happy pills. I would recommend it to all however. Enjoy and Be Blessed.

  9. 5 out of 5

    Manny

    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 same:Rose 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 equa 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 same:Rose 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 equal 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.

  10. 5 out of 5

    Czarny Pies

    In the fall of my last year in high school, I read extensively from this book in order to prepare my fall term paper. I chose Yeats because the Clancy Brothers occasionally included readings of poems by Yeats on their records and in their concerts. Given that the Clancy Brothers were very close Bob Dylan they constituted for me an important authority. Looking back I realized now what an anomaly Yeats was. He was a master of cadence, sound and rhyme skills that are no longer valued by English poet In the fall of my last year in high school, I read extensively from this book in order to prepare my fall term paper. I chose Yeats because the Clancy Brothers occasionally included readings of poems by Yeats on their records and in their concerts. Given that the Clancy Brothers were very close Bob Dylan they constituted for me an important authority. Looking back I realized now what an anomaly Yeats was. He was a master of cadence, sound and rhyme skills that are no longer valued by English poets. No one since Yeats has written poems to be recited in taverns. I applaud the Nobel Academy for having awarded the 2016 Literature Prize to Bob Dylan. I cannot think of any poet who loved the English language as much as he did. Yeats in some measure however small would have been one of Dylan's sources of inspiration. At a minimum Dylan would have known the Host of the Air and the other Yeats poems in the repertory of the Clancy Brothers. To hear a masterful version of Yeats Host of the air, go to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lyPc6...

  11. 5 out of 5

    Liz Janet

    The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed; Grey Truth is now her painted toy; Yet still she turns her restless head: Everything he writes is beauty personified, from his love poems to his Irish mythology. 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 ye The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed; Grey Truth is now her painted toy; Yet still she turns her restless head: Everything he writes is beauty personified, from his love poems to his Irish mythology. 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.

  12. 4 out of 5

    Libby

    Aaah W.B, you were my first love! The first poet that ever made me cry real tears purely from the beauty of words. I travelled from the other side of the world to visit your grave and leave you flowers as thanks. It is very hard to pick a favourite poem but if pressed on the subject I guess it would be: He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with the golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and half-light, I w Aaah W.B, you were my first love! The first poet that ever made me cry real tears purely from the beauty of words. I travelled from the other side of the world to visit your grave and leave you flowers as thanks. It is very hard to pick a favourite poem but if pressed on the subject I guess it would be: He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with the golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams beneath your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams...

  13. 5 out of 5

    Biblio Curious

    W.B. Yeats bought a signed 1st edition of Ulysses! Yeat's poetry is deeply philosophical and moving. A Dialogue of Self and Soul is still a top favorite poem of all time for me. Reference for 1st edition info: https://www.baumanrarebooks.com/blog/...

  14. 4 out of 5

    Rosa Jamali

    ییتس به فارسی برگردان : رُزا جمالی دریا نوردی به سمت بیزانس 1 اینجا سرزمینی برای مردی پیر نیست جوانان در کنار هم اند و پرندگانی در درختان نسلی رو به مرگ در آوازهایش قزل آلایی که به زمین می افتد، دریاهایی از گورماهی ها گوشتی از ماهی یا ماکیان در تمامِ طول تابستان حکمرانی می کند آنچه به فرزندی پذیرفته شده است به دنیا می آید و می میرد تمام آنچه که در آن موسیقی شهوانی نهفته است ، غفلت است بنایی تاریخی از خردی بی زمان. 2 مردی پیر که تحفه ای ناچیز است مگر لباسی ژنده آویخته بر عصایی روحی ست که دست می زند و آواز می خو ییتس به فارسی برگردان : رُزا جمالی دریا نوردی به سمت بیزانس 1 اینجا سرزمینی برای مردی پیر نیست جوانان در کنار هم اند و پرندگانی در درختان نسلی رو به مرگ در آوازهایش قزل آلایی که به زمین می افتد، دریاهایی از گورماهی ها گوشتی از ماهی یا ماکیان در تمامِ طول تابستان حکمرانی می کند آنچه به فرزندی پذیرفته شده است به دنیا می آید و می میرد تمام آنچه که در آن موسیقی شهوانی نهفته است ، غفلت است بنایی تاریخی از خردی بی زمان. 2 مردی پیر که تحفه ای ناچیز است مگر لباسی ژنده آویخته بر عصایی روحی ست که دست می زند و آواز می خواند و بلندتر می خواند بر پارگی های لباس فانی اش و نه مدرسه ی آوازها که درس هایش بناهایی با عظمتی منحصر به خویش و پس من در دریاها رانده ام و به شهرِ مقدس بیزانس رسیده ام. 3 مریمی های ایستاده در آتش مقدس خداوند همچنان که در کاشی طلائیِ رنگ دیوارها که از آتشِ مقدس می آید در روحی خبیث وآنها استادان آواز روح من بودند آنها قلب مرا به تحلیل می برند و با خواهش ها بیمار می کنند آنرا به جانوری رو به مرگ می بندند و او نمی داند که این چیست و مرا احاطه می کند و به نیرنگ ابدیت می برد. 4 زمانی بیرون از طبیعت من هیچوقت شکل جسمانی ام را از طبیعت نخواهم گرفت اما این شکلی ست که طلاسازان یونانی از کوبیدنِ طلا و لعابِ آن می سازند که این امپراطورِ خواب آلوده را بیدار نگه دارند به رویِ شاخه ی طلایی بگذارند که آواز بخواند به زنان و مردان بیزانس که چه گذشته است، در حالِ گذار است و یا خواهد آمد. صورتک هایی جدید اگر شما که پیر شده اید اولینِ مردگان بودید نه درخت کاتالپا ونه زیزفون معطر اگرپاهای زنده ام را بشنوند یا قدم هایم را جائیکه پرداخته ایم و دندانهای زمان را خرد خواهیم کرد بگذار صورتک های جدید با ترفندهایی که خواهند داشت بازی کنند در اتاق هایی کهنه، شب می تواند بر روز پیشی بگیرد سایه هامان در پرسه ای شن های باغ را سست می کند این زیستن سایه وار تن ازآنهاست. چرخ زمانی که زمستان است بهار را فرا می خوانیم و در تمام طول بهار تابستان را می خوانیم انبوه حلقه های پرچین اعتراف می کنند که زمستان بهترین است همه چیز خوب نیست چرا که بهار نیامده است کسی نمی داند که چه خون ما را می آزارد که چیزی جز آرزوی گور نیست. لیدا و قو ضربه ای به ناگهان بالهای بزرگ چه به هم می کوبند بر فرازِ سر لیدا که یله می رود قو ساق هایش را می نوازد با شبکه هایی تاریک پسِ گردنِ لیدا گرفتار در منقار قوست. قو سینه ی بی پناه او را بر سینه اش می فشارد ساق های مست و ولنگارش چه طور آن انگشت های مبهم ترسان شکوهِ بال و پرش را در خود می فشارد؟ در آن هجومِ سفید رنگ چه طور آن قلب عجیب جائیکه قرار می گیرد می تپد؟ لرزه ای در کمرگاه آبستن اش کرده دیواری شکسته، سقفی و برجی سوزان و آگاممنون مرده است اینچنین پیچیده در هم مقهور در خونِ سنگدل هوا، چه طور کوهِ دانایی اش قو را پس زد؟ درست قبل از اینکه قو به زمین بیندازدش... بیزانس تصویر ناگزیر روز کنار کشیده است سربازان مستِ امپراطور خواب اند ضرباهنگ شب کنار می کشد پیادگان شب آواز سر دادند و بعد از ناقوس مقدس کلیسا چه کوچک است گنبدی که از ستارگان و ماه روشن است و تمام آن آدمی ست تمام آن پیچیدگی های محض خشم و باتلاقِ رگ های آدمی ست. پیش از من تصویری شناور بود؛ آدمی بود یا سایه؟ سایه ای بیش از آدمی ، تصویری فراتر از سایه ماسوره ای بر زمین که در لباس های مومیایی گرفتار است ممکن است آن گذرگاه پیچاپیچ را باز کنید؟ دهانی که در آن رطوبتی نیست، دم و بازدمی نیست دهانی که بی آه تو را می خواند که من آنرا زندگی در مرگ ومرگ در زندگی نامیده ام. معجزه ای،پرنده ای یا ساخته ی دستی از طلا معجزه تر از آن پرنده ی مصنوع که کاشته اندش آنجا بر شاخه ی طلایی که از ستاره ها روشن است و او می تواند پرندگانِ نر بیشه ی هید را دوست بدارد تا اینکه ماه بر او بتابد بی چیز بشماردش فلزی که بی هیچ تغییری می تابد پرنده ای یا گلبرگی و تمام پیچیدگی های آن خون یا باتلاق. نیمه شب ، پرنده ها از سنگفرشِ امپراطور پر می گیرند شعله ایست که هیزمی آن را تشکیل نداده است آتشی ست که هیچ فلزی آنرا روشن نکرده است و طوفانی خاموشش نخواهد کرد زبانه ای که از زبانه های دیگر برآمده است ودشواری خشم از آنجا رخت بر می بندد به مرگی رسیده است در این رقص در رنجی که رو به خواب است و در شعله ای که نمی تواند آستینی را بسوزاند. با پاهایی نیم گشوده ، بر دلفینی از باتلاق و خون ارواح یکی پس از دیگری خوانده می شوند آهنگری ست که این سیلاب را می شکافد؛ طلاکارانِ امپراطور تالارهایی رقصنده از مرمرها این خشمِ تلخ را که دشوارست می شکافد تصویرها از تصویرهایی دیگر می زایند دلفینی تکه پاره این زنگ ها برای دریا شکنجه ایست. تروایی دیگر نیست چرا باید سرزنش اش کنم که روزهایم را پر کرده است با درماندگی یا آنچه این روزها می کند به مردانی چشم بسته خشونت را می آموزد یا خیابان های کوچک را به شکلی بی نظیر جمع می کند جرات عاشق شدن دارند؟ چه جور می تواند آسوده باشد؟ در بزرگی به سادگی آتش است شبیه پاپیونی سفت طبیعی ست در این سن که سر زنده و تنها و خشمگین باشی؛ چرا ؛ مگر چه کار می توانست بکند با آنچه که هست؟ تروای دیگری نبود که بسوزاندش؟ آمدنی دوباره می چرخد و می چرخد در اشباحی که بزرگ می شوند قوشی که قوش بازش را نمی شناسد چیزها مسلسل از هم جدا می شوند ؛ مرکزی که ایستا نیست آشوبی که در جهان بر پاست تاریکی خونی که گشاد می شود و همه جاهست آئین بی گناهی غرق می شود مجرمی نیست که پست ترین آنها به شدت شهوانی ست. حتما ظهوری اتفاق خواهد افتاد و حتما آمدنی دوباره خواهد بود این آمدنی دوباره ! چه سخت است که کلمات به کاغذ در می آیند زمانی که تصویری پهناور از روح است چشمانم را تاریک می کند؛ جائی میان شن زار جسمی با بدن یک شیر و سر آدمی نگاهی خالی و بی هیچ دلسوزی شبیه خورشید ران های سست اش را به حرکت وا می دارد چرخش سایه وار پرندگان صحرایی. تاریکی قطره قطره می چکد اما حالا می دانم که خواب سنگی قرن بیستم و گهواره ای که تکانش می داد کابوسی آزار دهنده بود وچه جانور خشنی ست؛ ساعتش رسیده و می لمد به سمت بیت الحم که زائیده شود؟ جواني و عمر كه چه بسيار در جواني خشم گرفتم پريشان و ستم ديده از دنيا كه حالا با زباني متملق و غلط انداز به خداحافظيِ مهماني كه تركش مي گويد سرعت مي بخشد. سه بناي يادبود مجامعِ عمومي شان را در جائي برگزار كردند كه برجسته ترين ميهن پرستانمان ايستادند كسي در ميان پرندگان هوا كوتاهتر بر هر دستي ؛ و تمامِ آن سياستمداران مردمي مي گويند اصالتي اين سرزمين را بنا كرد و آنرا از انحطاط باز داشت پندمان دادند كه به آن بياويزيم بگذار آنهمه آرزويِ نخست باقي بماند كه درك آن مارا سر بلند خواهد ساخت غروري كه در آلودگي مي آيد: آن سه رذل بلند مي خندند .

  15. 5 out of 5

    Nick

    If not for The Wanderings of Oisin, this was a 2.5/5. I think half of Yeats's poems include the word "dew." It's used so many times it actually increasingly pissed me off with each successive occurrence and almost culminated in my throwing the book across the room. Joyce was entirely right in his criticism of Yeats. Save for a few good poems, the rest are entirely forgettable.

  16. 5 out of 5

    Edward

    Preface Introduction Lyrical Crossways (1889) --The Song of the Happy Shepherd --The Sad Shepherd --The Cloak, the Boat, and the Shoes --Anashuya and Vijaya --The Indian upon God --The Indian to his Love --The Falling of the Leaves --Ephemera --The Madness of King Goll --The Stolen Child --To an Isle in the Water --Down by the Salley Gardens --The Meditation of the Old Fisherman --The Ballad of Father O'Hart --The Ballad of Moll Magee --The Ballad of the Foxhunter The Rose (1893) --To the Rose upon the Rood of Tim Preface Introduction Lyrical Crossways (1889) --The Song of the Happy Shepherd --The Sad Shepherd --The Cloak, the Boat, and the Shoes --Anashuya and Vijaya --The Indian upon God --The Indian to his Love --The Falling of the Leaves --Ephemera --The Madness of King Goll --The Stolen Child --To an Isle in the Water --Down by the Salley Gardens --The Meditation of the Old Fisherman --The Ballad of Father O'Hart --The Ballad of Moll Magee --The Ballad of the Foxhunter The Rose (1893) --To the Rose upon the Rood of Time --Fergus and the Druid --Cuchulain's Fight with the Sea --The Rose of the World --The Rose of Peace --The Rose of Battle --A Faery Song --The Lake Isle of Innisfree --A Cradle Song --The Pity of Love --The Sorrow of Love --When You are Old --The White Birds --A Dream of Death --The Countess Cathleen in Paradise --Who goes with Fergus? --The Man who dreamed of Faeryland --The Dedication to a Book of Stories selected from the Irish Novelists --The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner --The Ballad of Father Gilligan --The Two Trees --To Some I have Talked with by the Fire --To Ireland in the Coming Times The Wind Among the Reeds (1899) --The Hosting of the Sidhe --The Everlasting Voices --The Moods --The Lover tells of the Rose in his Heart --The Host of the Air --The Fish --The Unappeasable Host --Into the Twilight --The Song of Wandering Aengus --The Song of the Old Mother --The Heart of the Woman --The Lover mourns for the Loss of Love --He mourns for the Change that has come upon Him and his Beloved, and longs for the End of the World --He bids his Beloved be at Peace --He reproves the Curlew --He remembers forgotten Beauty --A Poet to his Beloved --He gives his Beloved certain Rhymes --To his Heart, bidding it have no Fear --The Cap and Bells --The Valley of the Black Pig --The Lover asks Forgiveness because of his Many Moods --He tells of a Valley full of Lovers --He tells of the Perfect Beauty --He hears the Cry of the Sedge --He thinks of Those who have spoken Evil of his Beloved --The Blessed --The Secret Rose --Maid Quiet --The Travail of Passion --The Lover pleads with his Friend for Old Friends --The Lover speaks to the Hearers of his Songs in Coming Days --The Poet pleads with the Elemental Powers --He wishes his Beloved were Dead --He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven --He thinks of his Past Greatness when a Part of the Constellations of Heaven --The Fiddler of Dooney In The Seven Woods (1904) --In the Seven Woods --The Arrow --The Folly of being Comforted --Old Memory --Never give all the Heart --The Withering of the Boughs --Adam's Curse --Red Hanrahan's Song about Ireland --The Old Men admiring Themselves in the Water --Under the Moon --The Ragged Wood --O do not Love Too Long --The Players ask for a Blessing on the Psalteries and on Themselves --The Happy Townland from The Green Helmet and other poems (1912) --His Dream --A Woman Homer sung --Words --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 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 --These are the Clouds --At Galway Races --A Friend's Illness --All Things can tempt Me --Brown Penny Responsibilities (1914) --Introductory Rhymes --The Grey Rock --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 --On Those that hated 'The Playboy of the Western World', 1907 --The Three Beggars --The Three Hermits --Beggar to Beggar cried --Running to Paradise --The Hour before Dawn --A Song from 'The Player Queen' --The Realists --I. The Witch --II. The Peacock --The Mountain Tomb --I. To a Child dancing in the Wind --II. Two Years Later --A Memory of Youth --Fallen Majesty --Friends Upon a Dying Lady: --I. Her Courtesy --II. Certain Artists bring her Dolls and Drawings --III. She turns the Dolls' Faces to the Wall --IV. The End of Day --V. Her Race --VI. Her Courage --VII. Her Friends bring her a Christmas Tree --The Cold Heaven --That the Night come --An Appointment --The Magi --The Dolls --A Coat --Closing Rhyme The Wild Swans at Coole (1919) --The Wild Swans at Coole --In Memory of Major Robert Gregory --An Irish Airman foresees His Death --Men improve with the Years --The Collar-bone of a Hare --Under the Round Tower --Solomon to Sheba --The Living Beauty --A Song --To a Young Beauty --To a Young Girl --The Scholars --Tom O'Roughley --Shepherd and Goatherd --Lines written in Dejection --The Dawn --On Woman --The Fisherman --The Hawk --Memory --Her Praise --The People --His Phoenix --A Thought from Propertius --Broken Dreams --A Deep-sworn Vow --Presences --The Balloon of the Mind --To a Squirrel at Kyle-na-no --On being asked for a War Poem --In Memory of Alfred Pollexfen --Ego Dominus Tuus --A Prayer on going into My House --The Phases of the Moon --The Cat and the Moon --The Saint and the Hunchback --Two Songs of a Fool --Another Song of a Fool --The Double Vision of Michael Robartes Michael Robartes and the Dancer (1921) --Michael Robartes and the Dancer --Solomon and the Witch --An Image from a Past Life --Under Saturn --Easter 1916 --Sixteen Dead Men --The Rose Tree --On a Political Prisoner --Reprisals --The Leaders of the Crowd --Towards Break of Day --Demon and Beast --The Second Coming --A Prayer for My Daughter --A Meditation in Time of War --To be carved on a Stone at Thoor Ballylee The Gift of Harun Al-Rashid (1923) --The Gift of Harun Al-Rashid The Tower (1928) --Sailing to Byzantium --The Tower Meditations in Time of Civil War: --I. Ancestral Houses --II. My House --III. My Table --IV. My Descendants --V. The Road at my Door --VI. The Stare's Nest by My Window --VII. I see Phantoms of Hatred and of the Heart's Fullness and of the Coming Emptiness --Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen --The Wheel --Youth and Age --The New Faces --A Prayer for My Son --Two Songs from a Play --Fragments --Leda and the Swan --On a Picture of a Black Centaur by Edmund Dulac --Among School Children --Colonus' Praise --Wisdom --The Hero, the Girl, and the Fool --Owen Aherne and His Dancers A Man Young and Old: --I. First Love --II. Human Dignity --III. The Mermaid --IV. The Death of the Hare --V. The Empty Cup --VI. His Memories --VII. The Friends of His Youth --VIII. Summer and Spring --IX. The Secrets of the Old --X. His Wildness --XI. From 'Oedipus at Colonus' --The Three Monuments --All Souls' Night The Winding Stair and other poems (1933) --In Memory of Eva Gore-Booth and Con Markiewicz --Death --A Dialogue of Self and Soul --Blood and the Moon --Oil and Blood --Veronica's Napkin --Symbols --Spilt Milk --The Nineteenth Century and After --Statistics --Three Movements --The Seven Sages --The Crazed Moon --Coole Park, 1929 --Coole Park and Ballylee, 1931 --For Anne Gregory --Swift's Epitaph --At Algeciras - a Meditation upon Death --The Choice --Mohini Chatterjee --Byzantium --The Mother of God --Vacillation --Quarrel in Old Age --The Results of Thought --Gratitude to the Unknown Instructors --Remorse for Intemperate Speech --Stream and Sun at Glendalough Words for Music Perhaps --I. Crazy Jane and the Bishop --II. Crazy Jane reproved --III. Crazy Jane on the Day of Judgment --IV. Crazy Jane and Jack the Journeyman --V. Crazy Jane on God --VI. Crazy Jane talks with the Bishop --VII. Crazy Jane grown Old looks at the Dancers --VIII. Girl's Song --IX. Young Man's Song --X. Her Anxiety --XI. His Confidence --XII. Love's Loneliness --XIII. Her Dream --XIV. His Bargain --XV. Three Things --XVI. Lullaby --XVII. After Long Silence --XVIII. Mad as the Mist and Snow --XIX. Those Dancing Days are gone --XX. 'I am of Ireland' --XXI. The Dancer at Cruachan and Cro-Patrick --XXII. Tom the Lunatic --XXIII. Tom at Cruachan --XXIV. Old Tom again --XXV. The Delphic Oracle upon Plotinus A Woman Young and Old --I. Father and Child --II. Before the World was Made --III. A First Confession --IV. Her Triumph --V. Consolation --VI. Chosen --VII. Parting --VIII. Her Vision in the Wood --IX. A Last Confession --X. Meeting --XI. From the 'Antigone' 'Parnell's Funeral' and other poems (1935) --Parnell's Funeral --Three Marching Songs --Alternative Song for the Severed Head in 'The King of the Great Clock Tower' --Two Songs Rewritten for the Tune's Sake --A Prayer for Old Age --Church and State Supernatural Songs: --I. Ribh at the Tomb of Baile and Aillinn --II. Ribh denounces Patrick --III. Ribh in Ecstasy --IV. There --V. Ribh considers Christian Love insufficient --VI. He and She --VII. What Magic Drum? --VIII. Whence had they come? --IX. The Four Ages of Man --X. Conjunctions --XI. A Needle's Eye --XII. Meru New Poems 1938 --The Gyres --Lapis Lazuli --Imitated from the Japanese --Margot --Sweet Dancer --The Three Bushes --The Lady's First Song --The Lady's Second Song --The Lady's Third Song --The Lover's Song --The Chambermaid's First Song --The Chambermaid's Second Song --An Acre of Grass --What Then? --Beautiful Lofty Things --A Crazed Girl --To Dorothy Wellesley --The Curse of Cromwell --Roger Casement --The Ghost of Roger Casement --The O'Rahilly --Come Gather round Me, Parnellites --The Wild Old Wicked Man --The Great Day --Parnell --What was Lost --The Spur --A Drunken Man's Praise of Sobriety --The Pilgrim --Colonel Martin --A Model for the Laureate --The Old Stone Cross --The Spirit Medium --Those Images --The Municipal Gallery Revisited --Are You Content? Final Poems (1938-39) --Under Ben Bulben --Three Songs to the One Burden --The Black Tower --Cuchulain Comforted --In Tara's Halls --The Statues --News for the Delphic Oracle --Long-legged Fly --A Bronze Head --A Stick of Incense --Hound Voice --John Kinsella's Lament for Mrs Mary Moore --High Talk --The Apparitions --A Nativity --Why Should Not Old Men be Mad? --The Statesman's Holiday --Crazy Jane on the Mountain --The Man and the Echo --The Circus Animals' Desertion --Politics Narrative and Dramatic --The Wanderings of Oisin (1889) --The Old Age of Queen Maeve (1903) --Baile and Aillinn (1903) The Shadowy Waters (1906) --Introductory Lines --The Harp of Aengus --The Shadowy Waters --The Two Kings (1914) Notes Index to Titles Index to First Lines

  17. 5 out of 5

    Madeline

    I like Yeats, I think. Mostly because he likes Irish mythology and writes lots of poems about it - a basic knowledge of Irish myths is helpful, but not totally necessary. One of my favorites, for sheer Icky But Awesome Factor, is Leda and the Swan. My class spent nearly an hour discussing it and I almost understand it. "LEDA AND THE SWAN A sudden blow: the great wings beating still Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill, He holds her helpless brea I like Yeats, I think. Mostly because he likes Irish mythology and writes lots of poems about it - a basic knowledge of Irish myths is helpful, but not totally necessary. One of my favorites, for sheer Icky But Awesome Factor, is Leda and the Swan. My class spent nearly an hour discussing it and I almost understand it. "LEDA AND THE SWAN A sudden blow: the great wings beating still Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill, He holds her helpless breast upon his breast. How can those terrified vague fingers push The feathered glory from her loosening thighs? And how can body, laid in that white rush, But feel the strange heart beating where it lies? A shudder in the loins engenders there The broken wall, the burning roof and tower And Agamemnon dead. Being so caught up, So mastered by the brute blood of the air, Did she put on his knowledge with his power Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?" Read for: Modern Poetry

  18. 4 out of 5

    Douglas Wilson

    Frequently did not know what was going on, but enjoyed many wonderful phrases and images. An endless wood, full of Celtic twilight.

  19. 5 out of 5

    Hadrian

    Beautiful. I regularly return to this collection and reread them at random, out loud, to savor the language - a sign of poetry done right.

  20. 5 out of 5

    Laura

    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 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. To a Child Dancing in the Wind Dance there upon the shore; What need have you to care For wind or water’s roar? And tumble out your hair That the salt drops have wet; Being young you have not known The fool’s triumph, nor yet Love lost as soon as won, Nor the best labourer dead And all the sheaves to bind. What need have you to dread The monstrous crying of wind? The Realists Hope that you may understand! What can books of men that wive In a dragon-guarded land, Paintings of the dolphin-drawn Sea-nymphs in their pearly wagons Do, but awake a hope to live That had gone With the dragons?

  21. 4 out of 5

    Bruce

    If it were possible to award a book six stars out of a possible five, I would award it for this volume. I purchased this book last month in Galway, Ireland, and believe that it is not yet available in the US. The book contains Yeats’ complete and unabridged verse, exclusive of his plays. All the poems are arranged chronologically, and if one knows the poet’s biography it is thus easy to recognize allusions in the verses to what might otherwise be obscure, greatly enhancing one’s understanding an If it were possible to award a book six stars out of a possible five, I would award it for this volume. I purchased this book last month in Galway, Ireland, and believe that it is not yet available in the US. The book contains Yeats’ complete and unabridged verse, exclusive of his plays. All the poems are arranged chronologically, and if one knows the poet’s biography it is thus easy to recognize allusions in the verses to what might otherwise be obscure, greatly enhancing one’s understanding and appreciation. Page after page reveals familiar quotations, often in broader contexts than might have been realized. Yeats employs a variety of rhyme schemes, when he uses rhyme at all, and careful reading of the poems often rewards the reader with approximate rhymes that might easily be missed. And the poet’s meters are also often approximate and irregular, so that the best reading is frequently to read right through the enjambments, minimizing any caesura at the end of lines. The poems can, of course, be read in any order, but reading the book cover to cover does provide a rich experience of Yeats’ life and his response to it, his poetic development, and a personal view of Irish history during his lifetime. The poetry contained herein is magnificent. Having just now finished the book, I have moved the ribbon back to the beginning and am ready to start again. Mention should be made of this delightful edition as an artistic product in itself. Published the Collector’s Library, this 4” by 6” book fits easily into a pocket, facilitating its availability for brief readings at any opportunity. The hardcover binding is real cloth, red embossed with gold lettering, and the page edges are gold leaf as well. And I always appreciate an attached ribbon for marking pages. What a delight to read and treasure this small but complete work.

  22. 5 out of 5

    Nikoline

    The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats by William Butler Yeats has a gift for language even when the subject of his poetry devolves into repetition of Irish myths. His way with words is admirable, and even though I am not very religious, his poems about God and angles really got to me. There is no doubt that he is a Shakespeare with his words, but he is still rather good and very enjoyable on rainy days. My favourite poem also happens to be written by Yeats and it goes like this: A mermaid found a sw The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats by William Butler Yeats has a gift for language even when the subject of his poetry devolves into repetition of Irish myths. His way with words is admirable, and even though I am not very religious, his poems about God and angles really got to me. There is no doubt that he is a Shakespeare with his words, but he is still rather good and very enjoyable on rainy days. My favourite poem also happens to be written by Yeats and it goes like this: A mermaid found a swimming lad, picked him for her own, pressed her body to his body, laughed; and plunging down, forgot in cruel happiness that even lovers drown. This, is magic.

  23. 5 out of 5

    Nick Black

    When you hear a slouch In your neighborhood What troubles your sight? SPIRITUS MUNDI! (I ain't afraid of no rough beasts!)

  24. 4 out of 5

    Mo

    He's conceited. He's an elitist. He's sexist. He's more than a little crazy. But he's also a genius so we'll forgive him all that. That's what my Yeats teacher told me anyways!

  25. 5 out of 5

    Shane

    "Words alone are certain good."

  26. 5 out of 5

    Claudia Ciardi

    There are in history so huge personalities, so creative and rich minds that they inlet at a deeper level the normal progress of arts and change without solution the direction of its stream. Of Dante Eliot said: Dante’s is a visual imagination. Of Yeats we can say that his poetry is visionary matter in a symbolic motion. All Yeats’ art could be read as a “formula alchemica” and we’re led on this path of symbols which feeds the visual associations at any rank. “The Wild Swans at Coole” celebrate the There are in history so huge personalities, so creative and rich minds that they inlet at a deeper level the normal progress of arts and change without solution the direction of its stream. Of Dante Eliot said: Dante’s is a visual imagination. Of Yeats we can say that his poetry is visionary matter in a symbolic motion. All Yeats’ art could be read as a “formula alchemica” and we’re led on this path of symbols which feeds the visual associations at any rank. “The Wild Swans at Coole” celebrate the fashinating emotivity of a place, not only expressed in its geographical essence but more lived on the interior side, that Yeats’ verses trace in a pure state of grace. For many years in poet’s life, Coole represented the ideal shelter to rest from the efforts and pains. Lady Gregory, the Irish Rock, who introduced Yeats to the beauty of Coole, was the most important friend, host and advisor of him. “The Swans” are a sort of gallery open to the seasons of life, where the friends gone receive their tribute and take a definitive leave, but with a melanchonic brimming intonation, in the special strenght gave by memory. This burial hymn to a black and white faced Demeter catches the poet weighing up a collar-bone of a hare. And this primitive manufact “worn thin by lapping of water” offers the real vision of a world in defect and the confirmation of the artist's standing on the “sauvage” border, but finally free and authentic. Our eyes are struck by the whiteness, “being caught between the pull / of the dark moon and the full”, as the Homer’s Paragon in “The Double Vision of Michael Robartes”. We’re walking on the edge of “albedo”, and from the second stage of alchemic process we gain “the pitch of fully” as right reward, that is to say a true and firm glance on what we pass by living.

  27. 5 out of 5

    James

    I have enjoyed the poetry of William Butler Yeats for many years as evidenced by my well-worn copy of his Complete Poems. But there is more to enjoy when considering this protean author for throughout his long life, William Butler Yeats produced important works in every literary genre, works of astonishing range, energy, erudition, beauty, and skill. His early poetry is memorable and moving. His poems and plays of middle age address the human condition with language that has entered our vocabula I have enjoyed the poetry of William Butler Yeats for many years as evidenced by my well-worn copy of his Complete Poems. But there is more to enjoy when considering this protean author for throughout his long life, William Butler Yeats produced important works in every literary genre, works of astonishing range, energy, erudition, beauty, and skill. His early poetry is memorable and moving. His poems and plays of middle age address the human condition with language that has entered our vocabulary for cataclysmic personal and world events. "O body swayed to music, O brightening glance, How can we know the dancer from the dance?" ("Among School Children", p 105) The writings of his final years offer wisdom, courage, humor, and sheer technical virtuosity. T. S. Eliot pronounced Yeats "the greatest poet of our time -- certainly the greatest in this language, and so far as I am able to judge, in any language" and "one of the few whose history is the history of their own time, who are a part of the consciousness of an age which cannot be understood without them." There are always new things to be learned when reading and meditating on the poetry of this masterful author.

  28. 4 out of 5

    Jamie

    Some beautiful poems on life, aging and love. Some of my favorites: - The sad shepherd - Ephemera - Down by the salley gardens - The white birds - He wishes for the cloths of heaven - Beggar to beggar cried - To a child dancing in the wind - Shepherd and goatherd - A prayer for my daughter - Meditations in time of civil war - Words for music perhaps - XV Three things Two poems I will quote: He wishes for the cloths of heaven Had I the heaves' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue Some beautiful poems on life, aging and love. Some of my favorites: - The sad shepherd - Ephemera - Down by the salley gardens - The white birds - He wishes for the cloths of heaven - Beggar to beggar cried - To a child dancing in the wind - Shepherd and goatherd - A prayer for my daughter - Meditations in time of civil war - Words for music perhaps - XV Three things Two poems I will quote: He wishes for the cloths of heaven Had I the heaves' 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: Bu I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. To a child dancing in the wind Dance there upon the shore; What need have you to care For wind or water's roar? And tumble out your hair That the salt drops have wet; Being young you have not known The fool's triumph, nor yet Love lost as soon as won Nor the best labourer dead And all the sheaves to bind What need have you to dread The monstrous crying of the wind?

  29. 4 out of 5

    Andrea

    What can one say about William Butler Yeats accept that he was an amazing poet! He is a true inspiration to anyone who longs to write from their heart, mind, and soul. My favorite poem of his is entitled "Sailing to Byzantium" and contains some of the greatest lines ever written in poetry. Here is just a snippet: THAT is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees Those dying generations - at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, o What can one say about William Butler Yeats accept that he was an amazing poet! He is a true inspiration to anyone who longs to write from their heart, mind, and soul. My favorite poem of his is entitled "Sailing to Byzantium" and contains some of the greatest lines ever written in poetry. Here is just a snippet: THAT is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees Those dying generations - at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect. Read more and be absorbed!I took my time throughout the year to slip between the pages of this volume and travel where Yeats dared to take me.

  30. 4 out of 5

    Felicity

    I discovered Years last year during a university English unit. I am not a big fan of poetry but something about Yeats really resonated with me.

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