by W. B. Yeats
THE COUNTESS KATHLEEN AND VARIOUS LEGENDS AND LYRICS
OR
THE ROSE
Published for the first time in 1892, this is Yeats’ second poetry collection, which includes the play The Countess Kathleen and a group of short lyrics. These poems were later collected under the title of The Rose in Yeats’ Collected Poems. Many of the works reflect Yeats’ interest in alchemy and esotericism, but the collection is more notable for containing the poet’s most celebrated poem, The Lake Isle of Innisfree, which was written in 1888. The poem was first published in the National Observer in 1890 and was inspired Henry David Thoreau’s Walden. Yeats later described his inspiration for the poem by saying that while he was a teenager, he wished to imitate the American Transcendentalist by living on an uninhabited island in Lough Gill, which he titled as Innisfree in the poem. When Yeats was living in London, he often walked down Fleet Street, dreaming of the seclusion of a pastoral setting such as the isle. One evening the poet glimpsed a water fountain, with a rock suspended over it, in a shop window, and this gave him the idea for the isle. He returned home at once and began writing the poem.
In his youth, Yeats often visited the land at Lough Gill at night, sometimes accompanied by his cousin Henry Middleton. On one occasion, they went out onto the lake at night on a yacht to observe birds and to listen to stories by the crew. The trips that Yeats took from the streets of Sligo to the remote areas around the lake also influenced what would become his most famous poem.
The Lake Isle of Innisfree is a twelve line poem, divided into three quatrains. The poem concerns the narrator’s longing for Innisfree, while residing in an unpleasant urban setting, presumably London. The narrator yearns to return to the peace and tranquility, and so escape the noise and troubles of the city. Innisfree represents for the poet a return to nature and the desire for the realms of fantasy over the holds of harsh reality.
The first edition
The title page of the collection
CONTENTS
TO THE ROSE UPON THE ROOD OF TIME
FERGUS AND THE DRUID
THE DEATH OF CUCHULAIN
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
A DREAM OF A BLESSED SPIRIT
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 IRELAND IN THE COMING TIMES
Fleet Street in 1888, the year Yeats wrote his famous poem. Nearby this scene there was a shop with a rock fountain, which inspired the poet to write ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree’.
Lough Gill, a freshwater lake in County Sligo, and the model for Innisfree
THE ROSE
“Sero te amavi, Pulchritudo tam antiqua et tam nova! Sero te amavi.”
S. Augustine.
TO LIONEL JOHNSON
TO THE ROSE UPON THE ROOD OF TIME
Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!
Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways:
Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide;
The Druid, gray, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed,
Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold;
And thine own sadness, whereof stars, grown old
In dancing silver sandalled on the sea,
Sing in their high and lonely melody.
Come near, that no more blinded by man’s fate,
I find under the boughs of love and hate,
In all poor foolish things that live a day,
Eternal beauty wandering on her way.
Come near, come near, come near — Ah, leave me still
A little space for the rose-breath to fill!
Lest I no more hear common things that crave;
The weak worm hiding down in its small cave,
The field mouse running by me in the grass,
And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass;
But seek alone to hear the strange things said
By God to the bright hearts of those long dead,
And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know.
Come near; I would, before my time to go,
Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways:
Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days.
FERGUS AND THE DRUID
FERGUS
The whole day have I followed in the rocks,
And you have changed and flowed from shape to shape.
First as a raven on whose ancient wings
Scarcely a feather lingered, then you seemed
A weasel moving on from stone to stone,
And now at last you wear a human shape,
A thin gray man half lost in gathering night.
DRUID
What would you, king of the proud Red Branch kings?
FERGUS
This would I say, most wise of living souls:
Young subtle Concobar sat close by me
When I gave judgment, and his words were wise,
And what to me was burden without end,
To him seemed easy, so I laid the crown
Upon his head to cast away my care.
DRUID
What would you, king of the proud Red Branch kings?
FERGUS
I feast amid my people on the hill,
And pace the woods, and drive my chariot wheels
In the white border of the murmuring sea;
And still I feel the crown upon my head.
DRUID
What would you?
FERGUS
I would be no more a king
But learn the dreaming wisdom that is yours.
DRUID
Look on my thin gray hair and hollow cheeks
And on these hands that may not lift the sword
This body trembling like a wind-blown reed.
No woman loves me, no man seeks my help,
Because I be not of the things I dream.
FERGUS
A wild and foolish labourer is a king,
To do and do and do, and never dream.
DRUID
Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams;
Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
FERGUS
I see my life go dripping like a stream
From change to change; I have been many things,
A green drop in the surge, a gleam of light
Upon a sword, a fir-tree on a hill,
An old slave grinding at a heavy quern,
A king sitting upon a chair of gold,
And all these things were wonderful and great;
But now I have grown nothing, being all,
And the whole world weighs down upon my heart:
Ah! Druid, Druid, how great webs of sorrow
Lay hidden in the small slate-coloured bag!
THE DEATH OF CUCHULAIN
A man came slowly from the setting sun,
To Forgail’s daughter, Emer, in her dun,
And found her dyeing cloth with subtle care,
And said, casting aside his draggled hair:
“I am Aleel, the swineherd, whom you bid
“Go dwell upon the sea cliffs, vapour hid;
“But now my years of watching are no more.”
Then Emer cast the web upon the floor,
And stretching out her arms, red with the dye,
Parted her lips with a loud sudden cry.
Looking on her, Aleel, the swineherd, said:
“Not any god alive, nor mortal dead,
“Has slain so mighty armies, so gr
eat kings,
“Nor won the gold that now Cuchulain brings.”
“Why do you tremble thus from feet to crown?”
Aleel, the swineherd, wept and cast him down
Upon the web-heaped floor, and thus his word:
“With him is one sweet-throated like a bird.”
“Who bade you tell these things?” and then she cried
To those about, “Beat him with thongs of hide
“And drive him from the door.”
And thus it was:
And where her son, Finmole, on the smooth grass
Was driving cattle, came she with swift feet,
And called out to him, “Son, it is not meet
“That you stay idling here with flocks and herds.”
“I have long waited, mother, for those words:
“But wherefore now?”
“There is a man to die;
“You have the heaviest arm under the sky.”
“My father dwells among the sea-worn bands,
“And breaks the ridge of battle with his hands.”
“Nay, you are taller than Cuchulain, son.”
“He is the mightiest man in ship or dun.”
“Nay, he is old and sad with many wars,
“And weary of the crash of battle cars.”
“I only ask what way my journey lies,
“For God, who made you bitter, made you wise.”
“The Red Branch kings a tireless banquet keep,
“Where the sun falls into the Western deep.
“Go there, and dwell on the green forest rim;
“But tell alone your name and house to him
“Whose blade compels, and bid them send you one
“Who has a like vow from their triple dun.”
Between the lavish shelter of a wood
And the gray tide, the Red Branch multitude
Feasted, and with them old Cuchulain dwelt,
And his young dear one close beside him knelt,
And gazed upon the wisdom of his eyes,
More mournful than the depth of starry skies,
And pondered on the wonder of his days;
And all around the harp-string told his praise,
And Concobar, the Red Branch king of kings,
With his own fingers touched the brazen strings.
At last Cuchulain spake, “A young man strays
“Driving the deer along the woody ways.
“I often hear him singing to and fro,
“I often hear the sweet sound of his bow,
“Seek out what man he is.”
One went and came.
“He bade me let all know he gives his name
“At the sword point, and bade me bring him one
“Who had a like vow from our triple dun.”
“I only of the Red Branch hosted now,”
Cuchulain cried, “have made and keep that vow.”
After short fighting in the leafy shade,
He spake to the young man, “Is there no maid
“Who loves you, no white arms to wrap you round,
“Or do you long for the dim sleepy ground,
“That you come here to meet this ancient sword?”
“The dooms of men are in God’s hidden hoard.”
“Your head a while seemed like a woman’s head
“That I loved once.”
Again the fighting sped,
But now the war rage in Cuchulain woke,
And through the other’s shield his long blade broke,
And pierced him.
“Speak before your breath is done.”
“I am Finmole, mighty Cuchulain’s son.”
“I put you from your pain. I can no more.”
While day its burden on to evening bore,
With head bowed on his knees Cuchulain stayed;
Then Concobar sent that sweet-throated maid,
And she, to win him, his gray hair caressed;
In vain her arms, in vain her soft white breast.
Then Concobar, the subtlest of all men,
Ranking his Druids round him ten by ten,
Spake thus, “Cuchulain will dwell there and brood,
“For three days more in dreadful quietude,
“And then arise, and raving slay us all.
“Go, cast on him delusions magical,
“That he might fight the waves of the loud sea.”
And ten by ten under a quicken tree,
The Druids chaunted, swaying in their hands
Tall wands of alder, and white quicken wands.
In three days’ time, Cuchulain with a moan
Stood up, and came to the long sands alone:
For four days warred he with the bitter tide;
And the waves flowed above him, and he died.
THE ROSE OF THE WORLD
Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?
For these red lips, with all their mournful pride,
Mournful that no new wonder may betide,
Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam,
And Usna’s children died.
We and the labouring world are passing by:
Amid men’s souls, that waver and give place,
Like the pale waters in their wintry race,
Under the passing stars, foam of the sky,
Lives on this lonely face.
Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode:
Before you were, or any hearts to beat,
Weary and kind one lingered by His seat;
He made the world to be a grassy road
Before her wandering feet.
THE ROSE OF PEACE
If Michael, leader of God’s host
When Heaven and Hell are met,
Looked down on you from Heaven’s door-post
He would his deeds forget.
Brooding no more upon God’s wars
In his Divine homestead,
He would go weave out of the stars
A chaplet for your head.
And all folk seeing him bow down,
And white stars tell your praise,
Would come at last to God’s great town,
Led on by gentle ways;
And God would bid His warfare cease.
Saying all things were well;
And softly make a rosy peace,
A peace of Heaven with Hell.
THE ROSE OF BATTLE
Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World!
The tall thought-woven sails, that flap unfurled
Above the tide of hours, trouble the air,
And God’s bell buoyed to be the water’s care;
While hushed from fear, or loud with hope, a band
With blown, spray-dabbled hair gather at hand.
Turn if you may from battles never done,
I call, as they go by me one by one,
Danger no refuge holds; and war no peace,
For him who hears love sing and never cease,
Beside her clean-swept hearth, her quiet shade:
But gather all for whom no love hath made
A woven silence, or but came to cast
A song into the air, and singing past
To smile on the pale dawn; and gather you
Who have sought more than is in rain or dew
Or in the sun and moon, or on the earth,
Or sighs amid the wandering, starry mirth,
Or comes in laughter from the sea’s sad lips
And wage God’s battles in the long gray ships.
The sad, the lonely, the insatiable,
To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell;
God’s bell has claimed them by the little cry
Of their sad hearts, that may not live nor die.
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 t
hing.
Beauty grown sad with its eternity
Made you of us, and of the dim gray 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.
A FAERY SONG
Sung by the people of faery over Diarmuid and Grania, who lay in their bridal sleep under a Cromlech.
We who are old, old and gay,
O so old!
Thousands of years, thousands of years,
If all were told:
Give to these children, new from the world,
Silence and love;
And the long dew-dropping hours of the night,
And the stars above:
Give to these children, new from the world,
Rest far from men.
Is anything better, anything better?
Tell us it then:
Us who are old, old and gay,
O so old!
Thousands of years, thousands of years,
If all were told.
THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
