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W. B. Yeats

W. B. Yeats

What Was Lost

I sing what was lost and dread what was won,
I walk in a battle fought over again,
My king a lost king, and lost soldiers my men;
Feet to the Rising and Setting may run,
They always beat on the same small stone.

#Irish #NobelPrize #XIXCentury #XXCentury

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The Spur

YOU think it horrible that lust a… Should dance attention upon my old… They were not such a plague when… What else have I to spur me into…
Among School Children

I walk through the long schoolroom… A kind old nun in a white hood rep… The children learn to cipher and t… To study reading-books and histori… To cut and sew, be neat in everyth…
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Long-Legged Fly

That civilisation may not sink, Its great battle lost, Quiet the dog, tether the pony To a distant post; Our master Caesar is in the tent
The Leaders of the Crowd

THEY must to keep their certaint… All that are different of a base i… Pull down established honour; hawk… Whatever their loose fantasy inven… And murmur it with bated breath, a…
The Attack on The “Play Boy”

Once, when midnight smote the air, Eunuchs ran through Hell and met On every crowded street to stare Upon great Juan riding by: Even like these to rail and sweat
Adam's Curse

We sat together at one summer’s en… That beautiful mild woman, your cl… And you and I, and talked of poet… I said, ‘A line will take us hour… Yet if it does not seem a moment’s…
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The Sorrow of Love

The quarrel of the sparrows in the… The full round moon and the star—l… And the loud song of the ever—sing… Had hid away earth’s old and weary… And then you came with those red m…
The Rose of Battle

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Faery Song

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The Seven Sages

The First. My great-grandfather s… In Grattan’s house. The Second. My great-grandfather… A pot-house bench with Oliver Gol… The Third. My great-grandfather’s…
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Swayed upon the gaudy stern The butt-end of a steering-oar, And saw wherever I could turn A crown upon the shore. I And though I would have hushed…
To Ireland in the Coming Times

KNOW, that I would accounted be True brother of a company That sang, to sweeten Ireland’s w… Ballad and story, rann and song; Nor be I any less of them,
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Come play with me; Why should you run Through the shaking tree As though I’d a gun To strike you dead?
The Blessed

Cumhal called out, bending his hea… Till Dathi came and stood, With a blink in his eyes, at the c… Between the wind and the wood. And Cumhal said, bending his knee…
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The Valleys of the Black Pig

THE dews drop slowly and dreams g… Suddenly hurtle before my dream-aw… And then the clash of fallen horse… Of unknown perishing armies beat a… We who still labour by the cromlec…



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