Near Matches
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2
In Memory of W. B. Yeats
(
thing
)
by
wharfinger
Fri Aug 11 2000 at 17:42:02
In Memory of
W. B. Yeats
(d. Jan.
1939
)
by
W.H. Auden
I
He disappeared in
the dead of winter
:
The brooks were frozen
, the airports almost deserted,
And snow disfigured the
public statues
;
The mercury sank
in the mouth of
the dying day
.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was
a dark cold day
.
Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests
,
The
peasant
river was untempted by the fashionable
quay
s;
By
mourning
tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.
But
for him it was his last afternoon as himself
,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted
,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the
suburb
s,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.
Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be
punished under a foreign code of conscience
.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living
.
But in the importance and noise of tomorrow
When
the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse
,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And
each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom
,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was
a dark cold day
.
II
You were silly like us
; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad
Ireland
hurt you into poetry.
Now
Ireland
has her madness and her weather still,
For
poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making
where
executive
s
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in
; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.
III
Earth, receive
an honored guest
:
William Yeats
is laid to rest.
Let the
Irish
vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.
Time, that is intolerant
Of the brave and innocent
,
And indifferent in a week
To a beautiful physique,
Worships language and forgives
Everyone by whom it lives
,
Pardons
cowardice
,
conceit
,
Lays its honors at their feet.
Time, that with this strange excuse,
Pardoned
Kipling
and
his views
,
And will pardon
Paul Claudel
,
Pardons him for
writing well
.
In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark
,
And
the living nations wait
,
Each sequestered in its hate;
Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.
Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still
persuade us to rejoice
;
With the farming of a verse
Make a
vineyard
of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a
rapture
of distress;
In
the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In
the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
I noded this just for lines 46 through 57: "Time, that is intolerant . . .", the remainder of that verse, and the next two verses. Much of the rest verges on
doggerel
, which is a shame, but that's the way it goes:
Eulogists
don't have time to wait for
inspiration
. If I'd been
Auden
, though, I'd've cut the thing drastically (
e.g.
the "
dark cold day
"
riff
was seriously
heavy-handed
,
once
, and then he really beats it into the ground:
Poor judgement
). Of course, that's by no means the only reason I'm not
Auden
. . .
William Butler Yeats
The White Man's Burden
In Memoriam
Somebody Blew Up America
Node your homework
Doggerel
Rudyard Kipling
The fun of being miserable...or not
pcx
Dion Fortune
To Alison Cunningham
Shall I scare you with the truth? Or tell the pretty lie?
British and Irish Poetry
Sorley MacLean
The Highwayman
Recessional
The Second Coming
Irish
Ireland
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