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W. B. Yeats

W. B. Yeats

To a Squirrel at Kyle-na-gno

COME play with me;    
Why should you run    
Through the shaking tree    
As though I’d a gun    
To strike you dead?    
When all I would do    
Is to scratch your head    
And let you go.

The Wild Swans at Coole. 1919.

#IrishWriters #NobelPrize

Other works by W. B. Yeats...
Her Vision in the Wood

Dry timber under that rich foliage… At wine-dark midnight in the sacre… Too old for a man’s love I stood… Imagining men. Imagining that I… A greater with a lesser pang assua…
 1
Thought from Propertius

SHE might, so noble from head To great shapely knees, The long flowing line, Have walked to the altar Through the holy images
He Wishes His Beloved Were Dead

Were you but lying cold and dead, And lights were paling out of the… You would come hither, and bend yo… And I would lay my head on your b… And you would murmur tender words,
Ego Dominus Tuus

Hic. ON the grey sand beside the… Under your old wind-beaten tower,… A lamp burns on beside the open bo… That Michael Robartes left, you w… And though you have passed the bes…
The Hosting of the Sidhe

The host is riding from Knocknare… And over the grave of Clooth-na-B… Caoilte tossing his burning hair, And Niamh calling Away, come away… Empty your heart of its mortal dre…
We, who seven years ago

We, who seven years ago Talked of honour and of truth, Shriek with pleasure if we show The weasel’s twist, the weasel’s t…
To a Friend Whose Work Has Come to Nothing

NOW all the truth is out, Be secret and take defeat From any brazen throat, For how can you compete, Being honour bred, with one
The Saint and the Hunchback

Hunchback. STAND up and lift yo… A man that finds great bitterness In thinking of his lost renown. A Roman Caesar is held down Under this hump.
 2
The Nineteenth Century and After

Though the great song return no mo… There’s keen delight in what we ha… The rattle of pebbles on the shore Under the receding wave.
He Remembers Forgotten Beauty

When my arms wrap you round I pre… My heart upon the loveliness That has long faded from the world… The jewelled crowns that kings hav… In shadowy pools, when armies fled…
The Player Queen

(Song from an Unfinished Play) My mother dandled me and sang, ‘How young it is, how young!’ And made a golden cradle That on a willow swung.
To Be Carved on a Stone at Thoor Ballylee

I, THE poet William Yeats, With old mill boards and sea-green… And smithy work from the Gort for… Restored this tower for my wife G… And may these characters remain
Lapis Lazuli

(For Harry Clifton) I HAVE heard that hysterical wom… They are sick of the palette and f… Of poets that are always gay, For everybody knows or else should…
 1
The Song of the Happy Shepherd

The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed; Grey Truth is now her painted toy… Yet still she turns her restless h…
 1
On Woman

MAY God be praised for woman That gives up all her mind, A man may find in no man A friendship of her kind That covers all he has brought



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