39 Friday, May 2nd, 2008: W.B. Yeats

Went to the National Library of Ireland and they had a spectacular exhibit on the famous W. B. Yeats. This is what I learned.

William Butler Yeats born 1865 in Dublin, Ireland and lived a life of poetry, occultism, politics and romanticism. W. B. Yeats father was John Butler Yeats and he was an aspiring lawyer until he turned to art. Susan Pollexfen was his mother and came from a prosperous family of shipping and milling business. W. B. Yeats attended school but was not phenomenal, in fact his report cards said 'very poor in spelling', 'exceedingly weak' and 'bad'. In later years Yeats would be declared the leading writer of the 20th century and winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature. The debut poem that won him notoriety was The Tower. Personally I like The Stolen Child because of my fondness of Irish lore.

As a child he grew up protestant but constantly pestered servants for myths and lore. As a grown man he wavered from Protestant belief and joined two theosophical occults. Reincarnation, mediums, tarot readings, symbolism, conversing with the dead, Irish and Asian mysticism fascinated him. Yeats and his wife, Georgie Hyde-Lees, later developed their own religion and order. The religion envolved multiple religions but no, it was not like Kabbalah.

W. B. Yeats was a hopeless romantic. Once fallen in love it became an obsession. A good example would be Maud Gonne who he met when she visited his father. Maud Gonne was an actress and Irish Revolutionary. Yeats fell in love with her at first sight and claimed that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. I think she looks masculine. Gonne was Yeats muse and inspired many famous poems (i.e. Not Another Troy). Yeats proposed to Gonne twice and was refused both times. A year after the second proposal (1917) 52 year old Yeats decided to propose to 23 year old Isault Gonne, Maud's daughter. The second best to getting Maud. Isault refused. In 1918 Yeats proposed to 24 year old Georgie Hyde-Lees and she accepted. Apart from that he had numerous flings and affairs with different women.

Politically he served two terms as senator in the Irish Free State and was in the Irish Revolutionaries. He was hardly a compassionate member in the Irish Revolutionaries and hid in his house when struggles between the Crown and the Irish erupted. What he did not protest in actions he protested in words.

Easter, 1916

I HAVE met them at close of dayComing with vivid faces From counter or desk among grey Eighteenth-century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head Or polite meaningless words, Or have lingered awhile and said Polite meaningless words, And thought before I had done Of a mocking tale or a gibe To please a companion Around the fire at the club, Being certain that they and I But lived where motley is worn:All changed, changed utterly:A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent In ignorant good-will, Her nights in argument Until her voice grew shrill. What voice more sweet than hers When, young and beautiful, She rode to harriers?This man had kept a school And rode our winged horse; This other his helper and friend Was coming into his force; He might have won fame in the end, So sensitive his nature seemed, So daring and sweet his thought. This other man I had dreamed A drunken, vainglorious lout. He had done most bitter wrong To some who are near my heart, Yet I number him in the song; He, too, has resigned his part In the casual comedy; He, too, has been changed in his turn, Transformed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone Through summer and winter seem Enchanted to a stone To trouble the living stream.The horse that comes from the road. The rider, the birds that range From cloud to tumbling cloud, Minute by minute they change; A shadow of cloud on the stream Changes minute by minute; A horse-hoof slides on the brim, And a horse plashes within it; The long-legged moor-hens dive, And hens to moor-cocks call; Minute by minute they live: The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice Can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice? That is Heaven's part, our part To murmur name upon name, As a mother names her child When sleep at last has come On limbs that had run wild. What is it but nightfall? No, no, not night but death; Was it needless death after all? For England may keep faith For all that is done and said. We know their dream; enough To know they dreamed and are dead; And what if excess of love Bewildered them till they died? I write it out in a verse -MacDonagh and MacBride And Connolly and Pearse Now and in time to be, Wherever green is worn, Are changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.

This is the most I have ever learned from an exhibition. Since I was already by it I went to the Archaeology Museum again.