Yeats

 Stumbling upon all these verses...
This beautiful book of poems by William Butler Yeats is always by my side in my bedroom, and here I opened it tonight while listening to some Irish more modern poetry sent by an artist friend.

"The Wild Swans at Coole" 

by W.B. Yeats 

(read by Tom O'Bedlam)

--

In Memory of Major Robert Gregory I Now that we're almost settled in our house I'll name the friends that cannot sup with us Beside a fire of turf in th' ancient tower, And having talked to some late hour Climb up the narrow winding stair to bed: Discoverers of forgotten truth Or mere companions of my youth, All, all are in my thoughts to-night being dead. II Always we'd have the new friend meet the old And we are hurt if either friend seem cold, And there is salt to lengthen out the smart In the affections of our heart, And quarrels are blown up upon that head; But not a friend that I would bring This night can set us quarrelling, For all that come into my mind are dead. III Lionel Johnson comes the first to mind, That loved his learning better than mankind, Though courteous to the worst; much falling he Brooded upon sanctity Till all his Greek and Latin learning seemed A long blast upon the horn that brought A little nearer to his thought A measureless consummation that he dreamed. IV And that enquiring man John Synge comes next, That dying chose the living world for text And never could have rested in the tomb But that, long travelling, he had come Towards nightfall upon certain set apart In a most desolate stony place, Towards nightfall upon a race Passionate and simple like his heart. V And then I think of old George Pollexfen, In muscular youth well known to Mayo men For horsemanship at meets or at racecourses, That could have shown how pure-bred horses And solid men, for all their passion, live But as the outrageous stars incline By opposition, square and trine; Having grown sluggish and contemplative. VI They were my close companions many a year, A portion of my mind and life, as it were, And now their breathless faces seem to look Out of some old picture-book; I am accustomed to their lack of breath, But not that my dear friend's dear son, Our Sidney and our perfect man, Could share in that discourtesy of death. VIl For all things the delighted eye now sees Were loved by him; the old storm-broken trees That cast their shadows upon road and bridge; The tower set on the stream's edge; The ford where drinking cattle make a stir Nightly, and startled by that sound The water-hen must change her ground; He might have been your heartiest welcomer. VIII When with the Galway foxhounds he would ride From Castle Taylor to the Roxborough side Or Esserkelly plain, few kept his pace; At Mooneen he had leaped a place So perilous that half the astonished meet Had shut their eyes; and where was it He rode a race without a bit? And yet his mind outran the horses' feet. lX We dreamed that a great painter had been born To cold Clare rock and Galway rock and thorn, To that stern colour and that delicate line That are our secret discipline Wherein the gazing heart doubles her might. Soldier, scholar, horseman, he, And yet he had the intensity To have published all to be a world's delight. X What other could so well have counselled us In all lovely intricacies of a house As he that practised or that understood All work in metal or in wood, In moulded plaster or in carven stone? Soldier, scholar, horseman, he, And all he did done perfectly As though he had but that one trade alone. XI Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room As though dried straw, and if we turn about The bare chimney is gone black out Because the work had finished in that flare. Soldier, scholar, horseman, he, As 'twere all life's epitome. What made us dream that he could comb grey hair? XII I had thought, seeing how bitter is that wind That shakes the shutter, to have brought to mind go All those that manhood tried, or childhood loved Or boyish intellect approved, With some appropriate commentary on each; Until imagination brought A fitter welcome; but a thought Of that late death took all my heart for speech. from THE WILD SWANS AT COOLE (1919) by W illiam Butler Yeats -- --

   In February 1918, Robert Gregory, a major in the British air force, died while fighting in battle over Italy.  In the eyes of the Irish poet William Butler Yeats, Robert Gregory was a fine, young, Renaissance man, whom he described as a “soldier, scholar, horseman.” To help his dear friend Lady Gregory cope with the loss of her son and to ease his own pain, Yeats writes the poem, “In Memory of Major Robert Gregory.”  Many scholars suggest that this poem is the finest elegy in the English language since Lycidas.  In the poem, Yeats compares Robert Gregory to three deceased friends, each of whom exhibits a characteristic that Robert Gregory embodies.  In writing this poem, Yeats’s attempt at catharsis fails, as he realizes that his emotions in response to the death are beyond words.  A mere poem cannot fully express his grief or commemorate a man’s life.  Although he has learned to appreciate the value of human life, Yeats must come to terms with the loss of his friend before he can come of age.

By writing this elegy, W.B. Yeats glorifies Major Robert Gregory and seeks to provide comfort for Lady Gregory and himself.  Losing a friend is tough, and the reader can relate with Yeats's dilemma.  Throughout his life, Yeats has used his poetry as a means for solving his problems.  A coming-of-age process involves a person learning about himself, and therefore, during the Middle Yeats period, he usually comes-of-age after writing a poem.  However, this poem is an exception because it is one of four poems dedicated to Robert Gregory--it takes four full poems for Yeats to accept Gregory's death.    "In Memory of Major Robert Gregory" was not written for only one man but for an entire generation of youth who died in the horrors of war.  Major Robert Gregory symbolizes all the promising youth who fell to an early death.  In memorializing Robert Gregory, Yeats remembers three of his dear friends who also died young.  Each of these men had a third of what Yeats considers to be perfection, and Robert Gregory was the synthesis of these traits.  Robert Gregory was in harmony with mind, spirit, and body, as a "soldier, scholar, horseman."  He excelled at every task he set to do, and that is why Yeats labels him as "life's epitome."    Yeats's healing process is a microcosm of Europe's reconstruction following the first world war.  Deep wounds with "salt to lengthen out the smart" take a lifetime to overcome, and neither Yeats nor Europe has shown any sign of coming of age.  Yeats ends his poem in speechless frustration.  Europe has a second world war just twenty years later.  The poem provokes the reader to re-evaluate his own experiences with death.  If writing to achieve catharsis works for Yeats, then it might for the reader.  Following the death of a loved one, the reader must not keep his emotions bottled inside.  Accordingly, Yeats avoids the dangers of not facing the reality of death, and, at the same time, teaches the reader a lesson by venting his emotions through poetry.