#Irish #NobelPrize #XIXCentury #XXCentury #1933 #TheWindingStairAndOtherPoems
Dry timber under that rich foliage, At wine-dark midnight in the sacred wood… Too old for a man’s love I stood in rag… Imagining men. Imagining that I could A greater with a lesser pang assuage
SWEETHEART, do not love too long: I loved long and long, And grew to be out of fashion
DEAR fellow-artist, why so free With every sort of company, With every Jack and Jill? Choose your companions from the best; Who draws a bucket with the rest
I MADE my song a coat Covered with embroideries Out of old mythologies From heel to throat; But the fools caught it,
Between extremities Man runs his course; A brand, or flaming breath. Comes to destroy All those antinomies
#1933 #TheWindingStairAndOtherPoems
When my arms wrap you round I press My heart upon the loveliness That has long faded from the world; The jewelled crowns that kings have hurl… In shadowy pools, when armies fled;
#1899 #TheWindAmongTheReeds
‘WHAT have I earned for all that work,… ‘For all that I have done at my own cha… The daily spite of this unmannerly town, Where who has served the most is most de… The reputation of his lifetime lost
III Slim adolescence that a nymph has stripp… Peleus on Thetis stares. Her limbs are delicate as an eyelid, Love has blinded him with tears;
WHO dreamed that beauty passes like a d… For these red lips, with all their mourn… Mournful that no new wonder may betide, Troy passed away in one high funeral gle… And Usna’s children died.
KING EOCHAID came at sundown to a w… Westward of Tara. Hurrying to his quee… He had outridden his war-wasted men That with empounded cattle trod the mire… And where beech-trees had mixed a pale g…
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
#1910 #TheGreenHelmetAndOtherPoems
O what to me the little room That was brimmed up with prayer and rest… He bade me out into the gloom, And my breast lies upon his breast. O what to me my mother’s care,
I, THE poet William Yeats, With old mill boards and sea-green slate… And smithy work from the Gort forge, Restored this tower for my wife George; And may these characters remain
I wander by the edge Of this desolate lake Where wind cries in the sedge: Until the axle break That keeps the stars in their round,
PARNELL’S FUNERAL UNDER the Great Comedian’s tomb the c… A bundle of tempestuous cloud is blown About the sky; where that is clear of cl… Brightness remains; a brighter star shoo…