Peace (by William Butler Yeats)

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]

Peace
by William Butler Yeats
from The Green Helmet and Other Poems  [Dundrum: Cuala Press, 1910]

Ah, that Time could touch a form
That could show what Homer’s age
Bred to be a hero’s wage.
‘Were not all her life but storm
Would not painters paint a form
Of such noble lines,’ I said,
‘Such a delicate high head,
All that sternness amid charm,
All that sweetness amid strength?’
Ah, but peace that comes at length,
Came when Time had touched her form. 

 

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King and No King (by William Butler Yeats)

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]

King and No King
by William Butler Yeats
from The Green Helmet and Other Poems  [Dundrum: Cuala Press, 1910]

Would it were anything but merely voice!’
The No King cried who after that was King,
Because he had not heard of anything
That balanced with a word is more than noise;
Yet Old Romance being kind, let him prevail
Somewhere or somehow that I have forgot,
Though he’d but cannon — Whereas we that had thought
To have lit upon as clean and sweet a tale
Have been defeated by that pledge you gave
In momentary anger long ago;
And I that have not your faith, how shall I know
That in the blinding light beyond the grave
We’ll find so good a thing as that we have lost?
The hourly kindness, the day’s common speech,
The habitual content of each with each
Men neither soul nor body has been crossed. 

 

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Reconciliation (by William Butler Yeats)

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]

Reconciliation
by William Butler Yeats
from The Green Helmet and Other Poems  [Dundrum: Cuala Press, 1910]

Some may have blamed you that you took away
The verses that could move them on the day
When, the ears being deafened, the sight of the eyes blind
With lightning, you went from me, and I could find
Nothing to make a song about but kings,
Helmets, and swords, and half-forgotten things
That were like memories of you–but now
We’ll out, for the world lives as long ago;
And while we’re in our laughing, weeping fit,
Hurl helmets, crowns, and swords into the pit.
But, dear, cling close to me; since you were gone,
My barren thoughts have chilled me to the bone. 

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No Second Troy (by William Butler Yeats)

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]

No Second Troy
by William Butler Yeats
from The Green Helmet and Other Poems  [Dundrum: Cuala Press, 1910]

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? 

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Words (by William Butler Yeats)

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]
Words
by William Butler Yeats
from The Green Helmet and Other Poems (Dundrum: Cuala Press, 1910)

I had this thought a while ago,
‘My darling cannot understand
What I have done, or what would do
In this blind bitter land.’

And I grew weary of the sun
Until my thoughts cleared up again,
Remembering that the best I have done
Was done to make it plain;

That every year I have cried, ‘At length
My darling understands it all,
Because I have come into my strength,
And words obey my call’;

That had she done so who can say
What would have shaken from the sieve?
I might have thrown poor words away
And been content to live.
 

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A Woman Homer Sung (by William Butler Yeats)

 

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]
A Woman Homer Sung
by William Butler Yeats
from The Green Helmet and Other Poems (Dundrum: Cuala Press, 1910)

If any man drew near
When I was young,
I thought, “He holds her dear,’
And shook with hate and fear.
But O! ’twas bitter wrong
If he could pass her by
With an indifferent eye.

Whereon I wrote and wrought,
And now, being grey,
I dream that I have brought
To such a pitch my thought
That coming time can say,
“He shadowed in a glass
What thing her body was.’

For she had fiery blood
When I was young,
And trod so sweetly proud
As ’twere upon a cloud,
A woman Homer sung,
That life and letters seem
But an heroic dream. 

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His Dream (by William Butler Yeats)

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]
His Dream
by William Butler Yeats
from The Green Helmet and Other Poems (Dundrum: Cuala Press, 1910)

I swayed upon the gaudy stern
The butt-end of a steering-oar,
And saw wherever I could turn
A crown upon the shore. 
 
And though I would have hushed the crowd,
There was no mother’s son but said,
‘What is the figure in a shroud
Upon a gaudy bed?’ 
 
And after running at the brim
Cried out upon that thing beneath
–It had such dignity of limb–
By the sweet name of Death. 
 
Though I’d my finger on my lip,
What could I but take up the song?
And running crowd and gaudy ship
Cried out the whole night long, 
 
Crying amid the glittering sea,
Naming it with ecstatic breath,
Because it had such dignity,
By the sweet name of Death. 

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The Happy Townland (by William Butler Yeats)

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]
The Happy Townland
by William Butler Yeats
from In the Seven Woods (1904)

There’s many a strong farmer
Whose heart would break in two,
If he could see the townland
That we are riding to;
Boughs have their fruit and blossom
At all times of the year;
Rivers are running over
With red beer and brown beer.
An old man plays the bagpipes
In a golden and silver wood;
Queens, their eyes blue like the ice,
Are dancing in a crowd.

The little fox he murmured,
‘O what of the world’s bane?’
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rein;
But the little red fox murmured,
‘O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world’s bane.’

When their hearts are so high
That they would come to blows,
They unhook their heavy swords
From golden and silver boughs;
But all that are killed in battle
Awaken to life again.
It is lucky that their story
Is not known among men,
For O, the strong farmers
That would let the spade lie,
Their hearts would be like a cup
That somebody had drunk dry.

The little fox he murmured,
‘O what of the world’s bane?’
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rein;
But the little red fox murmured,
‘O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world’s bane.’

Michael will unhook his trumpet
From a bough overhead,
And blow a little noise
When the supper has been spread.
Gabriel will come from the water
With a fish-tail, and talk
Of wonders that have happened
On wet roads where men walk.
And lift up an old horn
Of hammered silver, and drink
Till he has fallen asleep
Upon the starry brink.

The little fox he murmured,
‘O what of the world’s bane?’
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rein;
But the little red fox murmured.
‘O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world’s bane.’

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The Players Ask for a Blessing on the Psalteries and on Themselves (Yeats)

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]
The Players Ask for a Blessing on the Psalteries and on Themselves
by William Butler Yeats
from In the Seven Woods (1904)

Three Voices [together]:

Hurry to bless the hands that play,
The mouths that speak, the notes and strings,
O masters of the glittering town!
O! lay the shrilly trumpet down,
Though drunken with the flags that sway
Over the ramparts and the towers,
And with the waving of your wings.

First Voice:

Maybe they linger by the way.
One gathers up his purple gown;
One leans and mutters by the wall–
He dreads the weight of mortal hours.

Second Voice:

O no, O no! they hurry down
Like plovers that have heard the call.

Third voice:

O kinsmen of the Three in One,
O kinsmen bless the hands that play.
The notes they waken shall live on
When all this heavy history’s done;
Our hands, our hands must ebb away.

Three Voices [together]:

The proud and careless notes live on
But bless our hands that ebb away.

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O Do Not Love Too Long (by William Butler Yeats)

 

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]
O Do Not Love Too Long
by William Butler Yeats
from In the Seven Woods (1904)

Sweetheart, do not love too long:
I loved long and long,
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.

All through the years of our youth
Neither could have known
Their own thought from the other’s,
We were so much at one.

But O, in a minute she changed–
O do not love too long,
Or you will grow out of fashion
Like an old song. 

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