Last Poems

William Butler Yeats

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  • Under Ben Bulben
  • Three Songs To The One Burden
  • The Black Tower
  • Cuchulain Comforted
  • Three Marching Songs
  • In Tara's Halls
  • The Statues
  • News For the Delphic Oracle
  • I
  • II
  • III

  • Under Ben Bulben



    I

    SWEAR by what the sages spoke
    Round the Mareotic Lake
    That the Witch of Atlas knew,
    Spoke and set the cocks a-crow.

    Swear by those horsemen, by those women
    Complexion and form prove superhuman,
    That pale, long-visaged company
    That air in immortality
    Completeness of their passions won;
    Now they ride the wintry dawn
    Where Ben Bulben sets the scene.

    Here's the gist of what they mean.

    II
    Many times man lives and dies
    Between his two eternities,
    That of race and that of soul,
    And ancient Ireland knew it all.
    Whether man die in his bed
    Or the rifle knocks him dead,
    A brief parting from those dear
    Is the worst man has to fear.
    Though grave-diggers' toil is long,
    Sharp their spades, their muscles strong.
    They but thrust their buried men
    Back in the human mind again.

    III
    You that Mitchel's prayer have heard,
    "Send war in our time, O Lord!'
    Know that when all words are said
    And a man is fighting mad,
    Something drops from eyes long blind,
    He completes his partial mind,
    For an instant stands at ease,
    Laughs aloud, his heart at peace.
    Even the wisest man grows tense
    With some sort of violence
    Before he can accomplish fate,
    Know his work or choose his mate.

    IV
    Poet and sculptor, do the work,
    Nor let the modish painter shirk
    What his great forefathers did.
    Bring the soul of man to God,
    Make him fill the cradles right.

    Measurement began our might:
    Forms a stark Egyptian thought,
    Forms that gentler phidias wrought.
    Michael Angelo left a proof
    On the Sistine Chapel roof,
    Where but half-awakened Adam
    Can disturb globe-trotting Madam
    Till her bowels are in heat,
    proof that there's a purpose set
    Before the secret working mind:
    Profane perfection of mankind.

    Quattrocento put in paint
    On backgrounds for a God or Saint
    Gardens where a soul's at ease;
    Where everything that meets the eye,
    Flowers and grass and cloudless sky,
    Resemble forms that are or seem
    When sleepers wake and yet still dream.
    And when it's vanished still declare,
    With only bed and bedstead there,
    That heavens had opened.
    Gyres run on;
    When that greater dream had gone
    Calvert and Wilson, Blake and Claude,
    Prepared a rest for the people of God,
    Palmer's phrase, but after that
    Confusion fell upon our thought.
    V
    Irish poets, earn your trade,
    Sing whatever is well made,
    Scorn the sort now growing up
    All out of shape from toe to top,
    Their unremembering hearts and heads
    Base-born products of base beds.
    Sing the peasantry, and then
    Hard-riding country gentlemen,
    The holiness of monks, and after
    Porter-drinkers' randy laughter;
    Sing the lords and ladies gay
    That were beaten into the clay
    Through seven heroic centuries;
    Cast your mind on other days
    That we in coming days may be
    Still the indomitable Irishry.

    VI
    Under bare Ben Bulben's head
    In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.
    An ancestor was rector there
    Long years ago, a church stands near,
    By the road an ancient cross.

    No marble, no conventional phrase;
    On limestone quarried near the spot
    By his command these words are cut:
    Cast a cold eye
    On life, on death.
    Horseman, pass by!






    Three Songs To The One Burden



    THE Roaring Tinker if you like,
    But Mannion is my name,
    And I beat up the common sort
    And think it is no shame.
    The common breeds the common,
    A lout begets a lout,
    So when I take on half a score
    I knock their heads about.
    From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
    All Mannions come from Manannan,
    Though rich on every shore
    He never lay behind four walls
    He had such character,
    Nor ever made an iron red
    Nor soldered pot or pan;
    His roaring and his ranting
    Best please a wandering man.
    From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
    Could Crazy Jane put off old age
    And ranting time renew,
    Could that old god rise up again
    We'd drink a can or two,
    And out and lay our leadership
    On country and on town,
    Throw likely couples into bed
    And knock the others down.
    From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.

    II
    My name is Henry Middleton,
    I have a small demesne,
    A small forgotten house that's set
    On a storm-bitten green.
    I scrub its floors and make my bed,
    I cook and change my plate,
    The post and garden-boy alone
    Have keys to my old gate.
    From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
    Though I have locked my gate on them,
    I pity all the young,
    I know what devil's trade they learn
    From those they live among,
    Their drink, their pitch-and-toss by day,
    Their robbery by night;
    The wisdom of the people's gone,
    How can the young go straight?
    From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
    When every Sunday afternoon
    On the Green Lands I walk
    And wear a coat in fashion.
    Memories of the talk
    Of henwives and of queer old men
    Brace me and make me strong;
    There's not a pilot on the perch
    Knows I have lived so long.
    From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.

    III
    Come gather round me, players all:
    Come praise Nineteen-Sixteen,
    Those from the pit and gallery
    Or from the painted scene
    That fought in the Post Office
    Or round the City Hall,
    praise every man that came again,
    Praise every man that fell.
    From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
    Who was the first man shot that day?
    The player Connolly,
    Close to the City Hall he died;
    Catriage and voice had he;
    He lacked those years that go with skill,
    But later might have been
    A famous, a brilliant figure
    Before the painted scene.
    From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
    Some had no thought of victory
    But had gone out to die
    That Ireland's mind be greater,
    Her heart mount up on high;
    And yet who knows what's yet to come?
    For patrick pearse had said
    That in every generation
    Must Ireland's blood be shed.
    From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.






    The Black Tower



    SAY that the men of the old black tower,
    Though they but feed as the goatherd feeds,
    Their money spent, their wine gone sour,
    Lack nothing that a soldier needs,
    That all are oath-bound men:
    Those banners come not in.

    There in the tomb stand the dead upright,
    But winds come up from the shore:
    They shake when the winds roar,
    Old bones upon the mountain shake.

    Those banners come to bribe or threaten,
    Or whisper that a man's a fool
    Who, when his own right king's forgotten,
    Cares what king sets up his rule.
    If he died long ago
    Why do you dread us so?

    There in the tomb drops the faint moonlight,
    But wind comes up from the shore:
    They shake when the winds roar,
    Old bones upon the mountain shake.

    The tower's old cook that must climb and clamber
    Catching small birds in the dew of the morn
    When we hale men lie stretched in slumber
    Swears that he hears the king's great horn.
    But he's a lying hound:
    Stand we on guard oath-bound!

    There in the tomb the dark grows blacker,
    But wind comes up from the shore:
    They shake when the winds roar,
    Old bones upon the mountain shake.







    Cuchulain Comforted



    A MAN that had six mortal wounds, a man
    Violent and famous, strode among the dead;
    Eyes stared out of the branches and were gone.

    Then certain Shrouds that muttered head to head
    Came and were gone. He leant upon a tree
    As though to meditate on wounds and blood.

    A Shroud that seemed to have authority
    Among those bird-like things came, and let fall
    A bundle of linen. Shrouds by two and thrce

    Came creeping up because the man was still.
    And thereupon that linen-carrier said:
    "Your life can grow much sweeter if you will

    "Obey our ancient rule and make a shroud;
    Mainly because of what we only know
    The rattle of those arms makes us afraid.

    "We thread the needles' eyes, and all we do
    All must together do.' That done, the man
    Took up the nearest and began to sew.

    "Now must we sing and sing the best we can,
    But first you must be told our character:
    Convicted cowards all, by kindred slain

    "Or driven from home and left to dic in fear.'
    They sang, but had nor human tunes nor words,
    Though all was done in common as before;

    They had changed their throats and had the throats of
    birds.





    Three Marching Songs



    I

    REMEMBER all those renowned generations,
    They left their bodies to fatten the wolves,
    They left their homesteads to fatten the foxes,
    Fled to far countries, or sheltered themselves
    In cavern, crevice, or hole,
    Defending Ireland's soul.

    Be still, be still, what can be said?
    My father sang that song,
    But time amends old wrong,
    All that is finished, let it fade.

    Remember all those renowned generations,
    Remember all that have sunk in their blood,
    Remember all that have died on the scaffold,
    Remember all that have fled, that have stood,
    Stood, took death like a tune
    On an old,tambourine.

    Be still, be still, what can be said?
    My father sang that song,
    But time amends old wrong,
    And all that's finished, let it fade.

    Fail, and that history turns into rubbish,
    All that great past to a trouble of fools;
    Those that come after shall mock at O'Donnell,
    Mock at the memory of both O'Neills,
    Mock Emmet, mock Parnell,
    All the renown that fell.

    Be still, be still, what can be said?
    My father sang that song,
    but time amends old wrong,
    And all that's finished, let it fade.

    II
    The soldier takes pride in saluting his Captain,
    The devotee proffers a knee to his Lord,
    Some back a mare thrown from a thoroughbred,,
    Troy backed its Helen; Troy died and adored;
    Great nations blossom above;
    A slave bows down to a slave.

    What marches through the mountain pass?
    No, no, my son, not yet;
    That is an airy spot,
    And no man knows what treads the grass.

    We know what rascal might has defiled,
    The lofty innocence that it has slain,
    Were we not born in the peasant's cot
    Where men forgive if the belly gain?
    More dread the life that we live,
    How can the mind forgive?

    What marches down the mountain pass?
    No, no, my son, not yet;
    That is an airy spot,
    And no man knows what treads the grass.

    What if there's nothing up there at the top?
    Where are the captains that govern mankind?
    What tears down a tree that has nothing within it?
    A blast of the wind, O a marching wind,
    March wind, and any old tune.
    March, march, and how does it run?

    What marches down the mountain pass?
    No, no, my son, not yet;
    That is an airy spot,
    And no man knows what treads the grass.

    III
    Grandfather sang it under the gallows:
    "Hear, gentlemen, ladies, and all mankind:
    Money is good and a girl might be better,
    But good strong blows are delights to the mind.'
    There, standing on the cart,
    He sang it from his heart.

    Robbers had taken his old tambourine,
    But he took down the moon
    And rattled out a tunc;
    Robbers had taken his old tambourinc.

    "A girl I had, but she followed another,
    Money I had, and it went in the night,
    Strong drink I had, and it brought me to sorrow,
    But a good strong cause and blows are delight.'
    All there caught up the tune:
    "Oh, on, my darling man.'

    Robbers had taken his old tambourine,
    But he took down the moon
    And rattled out a tune;
    Robbers had taken his old tambourine.

    "Money is good and a girl might be better,
    No matter what happens and who takes the fall,
    But a good strong cause' - the rope gave a jerk there,
    No more sang he, for his throat was too small;
    But he kicked before he died,
    He did it out of pride.

    Robbers had taken his old tambourine,
    But he took down the moon
    And rattled out a tune;
    Robbers had taken his old tambourine.






    In Tara's Halls



    A MAN I praise that once in Tara's Hals
    Said to the woman on his knees, "Lie still.
    My hundredth year is at an end. I think
    That something is about to happen, I think
    That the adventure of old age begins.
    To many women I have said, ""Lie still,''
    And given everything a woman needs,
    A roof, good clothes, passion, love perhaps,
    But never asked for love; should I ask that,
    I shall be old indeed.'
    Thereon the man
    Went to the Sacred House and stood between
    The golden plough and harrow and spoke aloud
    That all attendants and the casual crowd might hear.
    "God I have loved, but should I ask return
    Of God or woman, the time were come to die.'
    He bade, his hundred and first year at end,
    Diggers and carpenters make grave and coffin;
    Saw that the grave was deep, the coffin sound,
    Summoned the generations of his house,
    Lay in the coffin, stopped his breath and died.






    The Statues



    PYTHAGORAS planned it. Why did the people stare?
    His numbers, though they moved or seemed to move
    In marble or in bronze, lacked character.
    But boys and girls, pale from the imagined love
    Of solitary beds, knew what they were,
    That passion could bring character enough,
    And pressed at midnight in some public place
    Live lips upon a plummet-measured face.

    No! Greater than Pythagoras, for the men
    That with a mallet or a chisel" modelled these
    Calculations that look but casual flesh, put down
    All Asiatic vague immensities,
    And not the banks of oars that swam upon
    The many-headed foam at Salamis.
    Europe put off that foam when Phidias
    Gave women dreams and dreams their looking-glass.

    One image crossed the many-headed, sat
    Under the tropic shade, grew round and slow,
    No Hamlet thin from eating flies, a fat
    Dreamer of the Middle Ages. Empty eyeballs knew
    That knowledge increases unreality, that
    Mirror on mirror mirrored is all the show.
    When gong and conch declare the hour to bless
    Grimalkin crawls to Buddha's emptiness.

    When Pearse summoned Cuchulain to his side.
    What stalked through the post Office? What intellect,
    What calculation, number, measurement, replied?
    We Irish, born into that ancient sect
    But thrown upon this filthy modern tide
    And by its formless spawning fury wrecked,
    Climb to our proper dark, that we may trace
    The lineaments of a plummet-measured face.




    News For the Delphic Oracle




    I



    THERE all the golden codgers lay,
    There the silver dew,
    And the great water sighed for love,
    And the wind sighed too.
    Man-picker Niamh leant and sighed
    By Oisin on the grass;
    There sighed amid his choir of love
    Tall pythagoras.
    plotinus came and looked about,
    The salt-flakes on his breast,
    And having stretched and yawned awhile
    Lay sighing like the rest.





    II



    Straddling each a dolphin's back
    And steadied by a fin,
    Those Innocents re-live their death,
    Their wounds open again.
    The ecstatic waters laugh because
    Their cries are sweet and strange,
    Through their ancestral patterns dance,
    And the brute dolphins plunge
    Until, in some cliff-sheltered bay
    Where wades the choir of love
    Proffering its sacred laurel crowns,
    They pitch their burdens off.






    III



    Slim adolescence that a nymph has stripped,
    Peleus on Thetis stares.
    Her limbs are delicate as an eyelid,
    Love has blinded him with tears;
    But Thetis' belly listens.
    Down the mountain walls
    From where pan's cavern is
    Intolerable music falls.
    Foul goat-head, brutal arm appear,
    Belly, shoulder, bum,
    Flash fishlike; nymphs and satyrs
    Copulate in the foam.