Youth And Age MUCH did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue It speeds the parting guest. / by William Butler Yeats /
Death DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so: For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me. From Rest and Sleep, … Continue reading
At Verona HOW steep the stairs within Kings’ houses are For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread, And O how salt and bitter is the bread Which falls from this Hound’s table,–better far That I had died in the red … Continue reading
Sonnets to the Sundry Notes of Music I. IT was a lording’s daughter, the fairest one of three, That liked of her master as well as well might be, Till looking on an Englishman, the fair’st that eye could see, … Continue reading
Sestina I have come, alas, to the great circle of shadow, to the short day and to the whitening hills, when the colour is all lost from the grass, though my desire will not lose its green, so rooted is … Continue reading
To The Men Of England Men of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay ye low? Wherefore weave with toil and care The rich robes your tyrants wear? Wherefore feed and clothe and save, From the cradle to the … Continue reading
Endymion: Book I ENDYMION. A Poetic Romance. “THE STRETCHED METRE OF AN AN ANTIQUE SONG.” INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS CHATTERTON. Book I A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass … Continue reading
Farewell Love and All Thy Laws Forever
Farewell love and all thy laws forever;
Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more.
Senec and Plato call me from thy lore
To perfect wealth, my wit for to endeavour.
In blind error when I did persever,
Thy sharp repulse, that pricketh aye so sore,
Hath taught me to set in trifles no store
And scape forth, since liberty is lever.
Therefore farewell; go trouble younger hearts
And in me claim no more authority.
With idle youth go use thy property
And thereon spend thy many brittle darts,
For hitherto though I have lost all my time,
Me lusteth no lenger rotten boughs to climb.
Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt: ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.
I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.