It was my first meeting with a philosophy that confirmed my vague speculations and seemed at once logical and boundless.
I have nothing but the embittered sun; Banished heroic mother moon and vanished, And now that I have come to fifty years I must endure the timid sun.
I would that there was nothing in the world But my beloved that night and day had perished, And all that is and all that is to be, All that is not the meeting of our lips.
Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top.
When we are high and airy hundreds say That if we hold that flight they'll leave the place, While those same hundreds mock another day Because we have made our art of common things.
That beautiful mild woman for whose sake There's many a one shall find out all heartache On finding that her voice is sweet and low Replied, 'To be born a woman is to know- Although they do not talk of it at school - That we must labor to be beautiful.
And if joy were not on the earth, There were an end of change and birth, And Earth and Heaven and Hell would die, And in some gloomy barrow lie Folded like a frozen fly.
All things can tempt me from this craft of verse: One time it was a woman's face, or worse-- The seeming needs of my fool-driven land; Now nothing but comes readier to the hand Than this accustomed toil.
Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.
I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.
How can they know Truth flourishes where the student's lamp has shone, And there alone, that have no solitude? So the crowd come they care not what may come. They have loud music, hope every day renewed And heartier loves; that lamp is from the tomb.
For what but eye and ear silence the mind With the minute particulars of mankind?
Now must we sing and sing the best we can, But first you must be told your character: Convicted cowards all, by kindred slain.
But stories that live longest Are sung above the glass, And Parnell loved his country And Parnell loved his lass.
Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?
Give to these children, new from the world, Rest far from men. Is anything better, anything better? Tell us it then.
I say that Roger Casement Did what he had to do, He died upon the gallows But that is nothing new.
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.
Labor is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul, Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut tree, great-rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance How can we know the dancer from the dance?
How can the arts overcome the slow dying of men's hearts that we call progress ?
Education is not filling
The world being illusive, one must be deluded in some way if one is to triumph in it.
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.
What made us dream that he could comb gray hair?
I kiss you and kiss you, With arms around my own, Ah, how shall I miss you, When, dear, you have grown.
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