Poems by William Butler Yeats

Author:William Butler Yeats
Language: eng
Format: azw
Published: 2012-02-21T14:01:43.154601+00:00

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CROSSWAYS

"The stars are threshed, and the souls are threshed from their husks."

WILLIAM BLAKE.

To A.E.

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; Gray Truth is now her painted toy; Yet still she turns her restless head: But O, sick children of the world, Of all the many changing things In dreary dancing past us whirled, To the cracked tune that Chronos sings, Words alone are certain good. Where are now the warring kings, Word be-mockers?--By the Rood Where are now the warring kings? An idle word is now their glory, By the stammering schoolboy said, Reading some entangled story: The kings of the old time are fled The wandering earth herself may be Only a sudden flaming word, In clanging space a moment heard, Troubling the endless reverie.

Then nowise worship dusty deeds, Nor seek; for this is also sooth; To hunger fiercely after truth, Lest all thy toiling only breeds New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth Saving in thine own heart. Seek, then, No learning from the starry men, Who follow with the optic glass The whirling ways of stars that pass-- Seek, then, for this is also sooth, No word of theirs--the cold star-bane Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain, And dead is all their human truth. Go gather by the humming-sea Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell, And to its lips thy story tell, And they thy comforters will be, Rewarding in melodious guile, Thy fretful words a little while, Till they shall singing fade in ruth, And die a pearly brotherhood; For words alone are certain good: Sing, then, for this is also sooth.

I must be gone: there is a grave Where daffodil and lily wave, And I would please the hapless faun, Buried under the sleepy ground, With mirthful songs before the dawn. His shouting days with mirth were crowned; And still I dream he treads the lawn, Walking ghostly in the dew, Pierced by my glad singing through, My songs of old earth's dreamy youth: But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou! For fair are poppies on the brow: Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.

THE SAD SHEPHERD

There was a man whom Sorrow named his friend, And he, of his high comrade Sorrow dreaming, Went walking with slow steps along the gleaming And humming sands, where windy surges wend: And he called loudly to the stars to bend From their pale thrones and comfort him, but they Among themselves laugh on and sing alway: And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend Cried out, Dim sea, hear my most piteous story! The sea swept on and cried her old cry still, Rolling along in dreams from hill to hill; He fled the persecution of her glory And, in a far-off, gentle valley stopping, Cried all his story to the dewdrops glistening, But naught they heard, for they are always listening, The dewdrops, for the sound of their own dropping.

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