Selected Poems of W. B. Yeats

The Song of Wandering Aengus (1899)

I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And some one called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossom in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.

He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven (1899)

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Selected Poems of W. B. Yeats

No Second Troy (1910)

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?

Selected Poems of W. B. Yeats

The Magi (1914)

Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye, In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones, And all their helms of silver hovering side by side, And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more, Being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied, The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

Selected Poems of W. B. Yeats

Easter 1916 (1916) Hearts with one purpose alone I have met them at close of day Through summer and winter seem Coming with vivid faces Enchanted to a stone From counter or desk among grey To trouble the living stream. Eighteenth-century houses. The horse that comes from the road, I have passed with a nod of the head The rider, the birds that range Or polite meaningless words, From cloud to tumbling cloud, Or have lingered awhile and said Minute by minute they change; Polite meaningless words, A shadow of cloud on the stream And thought before I had done Changes minute by minute; Of a mocking tale or a gibe A horse-hoof slides on the brim, To please a companion And a horse plashes within it; Around the fire at the club, The long-legged moor-hens dive, Being certain that they and I And hens to moor-cocks call; But lived where motley is worn: Minute to minute they live; All changed, changed utterly: The stone's in the midst of all. A terrible beauty is born. Too long a sacrifice That woman's days were spent Can make a stone of the heart. In ignorant good-will, O when may it suffice? Her nights in argument That is Heaven's part, our part Until her voice grew shrill. To murmur name upon name, What voice more sweet than hers As a mother names her child When, young and beautiful, When sleep at last has come She rode to harriers? On limbs that had run wild. This man had kept a school What is it but nightfall? And rode our wingèd horse; No, no, not night but death; This other his helper and friend Was it needless death after all? Was coming into his force; For England may keep faith He might have won fame in the end, For all that is done and said. So sensitive his nature seemed, We know their dream; enough So daring and sweet his thought. To know they dreamed and are dead; This other man I had dreamed And what if excess of love A drunken, vainglorious lout. Bewildered them till they died? He had done most bitter wrong I write it out in a verse -- To some who are near my heart, MacDonagh and MacBride Yet I number him in the song; And Connolly and Pearse He, too, has resigned his part Now and in time to be, In the casual comedy; Wherever green is worn, He, too, has been changed in his turn, Are changed, changed utterly: Transformed utterly: A terrible beauty is born. A terrible beauty is born.

Selected Poems of W. B. Yeats

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death (1919)

I know that I shall meet my fate Somewhere among the clouds above; Those that I fight I do not hate Those that I guard I do not love; My country is Kiltartan Cross, My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor, No likely end could bring them loss Or leave them happier than before. Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public man, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds; I balanced all, brought all to mind, The years to come seemed waste of breath, A waste of breath the years behind In balance with this life, this death.

Selected Poems of W. B. Yeats

The Second Coming (1919)

Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Selected Poems of W. B. Yeats

Sailing to Byzantium (1928)

That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees —Those dying generations—at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.