Part 3

‘Great prince, forgive the freedom of my speech; You think that love has seasons, and you think That if the spring bear off what the spring gave The heart need suffer no defeat; but I Who have accepted the Byzantine faith, That seems unnatural to Arabian minds, Think when I choose a bride I choose for ever; And if her eye should not grow bright for mine Or brighten only for some younger eye, My heart could never turn from daily ruin, Nor find a remedy.’ ‘But what if I Have lit upon a woman, who so shares Your thirst for those old crabbed mysteries, So strains to look beyond our life, an eye That never knew that strain would scarce seem bright, And yet herself can seem youth’s very fountain, Being all brimmed with life.’ ‘Were it but true I would have found the best that life can give, Companionship in those mysterious things That make a man’s soul or a woman’s soul Itself and not some other soul.’ ‘That love Must needs be in this life and in what follows Unchanging and at peace, and it is right Every philosopher should praise that love. But I being none can praise its opposite. It makes my passion stronger but to think Like passion stirs the peacock and his mate, The wild stag and the doe; that mouth to mouth Is a man’s mockery of the changeless soul.’ And thereupon his bounty gave what now Can shake more blossom from autumnal chill Than all my bursting springtime knew. A girl Perched in some window of her mother’s house Had watched my daily passage to and fro; Had heard impossible history of my past; Imagined some impossible history Lived at my side; thought time’s disfiguring touch Gave but more reason for a woman’s care. Yet was it love of me, or was it love Of the stark mystery that has dazed my sight, Perplexed her phantasy and planned her care? Or did the torchlight of that mystery Pick out my features in such light and shade Two contemplating passions chose one theme Through sheer bewilderment? She had not paced The garden paths, nor counted up the rooms, Before she had spread a book upon her knees And asked about the pictures or the text; And often those first days I saw her stare On old dry writing in a learned tongue, On old dry faggots that could never please The extravagance of spring; or move a hand As if that writing or the figured page Were some dear cheek. Upon a moonless night I sat where I could watch her sleeping form, And wrote by candle-light; but her form moved, And fearing that my light disturbed her sleep I rose that I might screen it with a cloth. I heard her voice, ‘Turn that I may expound What’s bowed your shoulder and made pale your cheek’; And saw her sitting upright on the bed; Or was it she that spoke or some great Djinn? I say that a Djinn spoke. A live-long hour She seemed the learned man and I the child; Truths without father came, truths that no book Of all the uncounted books that I have read, Nor thought out of her mind or mine begot, Self-born, high-born, and solitary truths, Those terrible implacable straight lines Drawn through the wandering vegetative dream, Even those truths that when my bones are dust Must drive the Arabian host. The voice grew still, And she lay down upon her bed and slept, But woke at the first gleam of day, rose up And swept the house and sang about her work In childish ignorance of all that passed. A dozen nights of natural sleep, and then When the full moon swam to its greatest height She rose, and with her eyes shut fast in sleep Walked through the house. Unnoticed and unfelt I wrapped her in a heavy hooded cloak, and she, Half running, dropped at the first ridge of the desert And there marked out those emblems on the sand That day by day I study and marvel at, With her white finger. I led her home asleep And once again she rose and swept the house In childish ignorance of all that passed. Even to-day, after some seven years When maybe thrice in every moon her mouth Murmured the wisdom of the desert Djinns, She keeps that ignorance, nor has she now That first unnatural interest in my books. It seems enough that I am there; and yet Old fellow student, whose most patient ear Heard all the anxiety of my passionate youth, It seems I must buy knowledge with my peace. What if she lose her ignorance and so Dream that I love her only for the voice, That every gift and every word of praise Is but a payment for that midnight voice That is to age what milk is to a child! Were she to lose her love, because she had lost Her confidence in mine, or even lose Its first simplicity, love, voice and all, All my fine feathers would be plucked away And I left shivering. The voice has drawn A quality of wisdom from her love’s Particular quality. The signs and shapes; All those abstractions that you fancied were From the great treatise of Parmenides; All, all those gyres and cubes and midnight things Are but a new expression of her body Drunk with the bitter sweetness of her youth. And now my utmost mystery is out. A woman’s beauty is a storm-tossed banner; Under it wisdom stands, and I alone-- Of all Arabia’s lovers I alone-- Nor dazzled by the embroidery, nor lost In the confusion of its night-dark folds, Can hear the armed man speak.

1923

ALL SOULS’ NIGHT

An Epilogue to ‘A Vision’

Midnight has come and the great Christ Church Bell, And may a lesser bell, sound through the room; And it is All Souls’ Night, And two long glasses brimmed with muscatel Bubble upon the table. A ghost may come; For it is a ghost’s right, His element is so fine Being sharpened by his death, To drink from the wine-breath While our gross palates drink from the whole wine.

I need some mind that, if the cannon sound From every quarter of the world, can stay Wound in mind’s pondering, As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound; Because I have a marvellous thing to say, A certain marvellous thing None but the living mock, Though not for sober ear; It may be all that hear Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock.

H----’s the first I call. He loved strange thought And knew that sweet extremity of pride That’s called platonic love, And that to such a pitch of passion wrought Nothing could bring him, when his lady died, Anodyne for his love. Words were but wasted breath; One dear hope had he: The inclemency Of that or the next winter would be death.

Two thoughts were so mixed up I could not tell Whether of her or God he thought the most, But think that his mind’s eye, When upward turned, on one sole image fell; And that a slight companionable ghost, Wild with divinity, Had so lit up the whole Immense miraculous house The Bible promised us, It seemed a gold-fish swimming in a bowl.

On Florence Emery I call the next, Who finding the first wrinkles on a face Admired and beautiful, And knowing that the future would be vexed With ’minished beauty, multiplied commonplace, Preferred to teach a school, Away from neighbour or friend Among dark skins, and there Permit foul years to wear Hidden from eyesight to the unnoticed end.

Before that end much had she ravelled out From a discourse in figurative speech By some learned Indian On the soul’s journey. How it is whirled about, Wherever the orbit of the moon can reach, Until it plunge into the sun; And there, free and yet fast Being both Chance and Choice, Forget its broken toys And sink into its own delight at last.

And I call up MacGregor from the grave, For in my first hard springtime we were friends, Although of late estranged. I thought him half a lunatic, half knave, And told him so, but friendship never ends; And what if mind seem changed, And it seem changed with the mind, When thoughts rise up unbid On generous things that he did And I grow half contented to be blind.

He had much industry at setting out, Much boisterous courage, before loneliness Had driven him crazed; For meditations upon unknown thought Make human intercourse grow less and less; They are neither paid nor praised. But he’d object to the host, The glass because my glass; A ghost-lover he was And may have grown more arrogant being a ghost.

But names are nothing. What matter who it be, So that his elements have grown so fine The fume of muscatel Can give his sharpened palate ecstasy No living man can drink from the whole wine. I have mummy truths to tell Whereat the living mock, Though not for sober ear, For maybe all that hear Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock.

Such thought--such thought have I that hold it tight Till meditation master all its parts, Nothing can stay my glance Until that glance run in the world’s despite To where the damned have howled away their hearts, And where the blessed dance; Such thought, that in it bound I need no other thing Wound in mind’s wandering, As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound.

NOTES

SAILING TO BYZANTIUM

Stanza IV

I have read somewhere that in the Emperor’s palace at Byzantium was a tree made of gold and silver, and artificial birds that sang.

THE TOWER. Part II

The persons mentioned are associated by legend, story and tradition with the neighbourhood of Thoor Ballylee or Ballylee Castle, where the poem was written. Mrs. French lived at Peterswell in the eighteenth century and was related to Sir Jonah Barrington, who described the incident of the ear and the trouble that came of it. The peasant beauty and the blind poet are Mary Hynes and Raftery, and the incident of the man drowned in Cloone Bog is recorded in my ‘Celtic Twilight’. Hanrahan’s pursuit of the phantom hare and hounds is from my ‘Stories of Red Hanrahan’. The ghosts have been seen at their game of dice in what is now my bedroom, and the old bankrupt man lived about a hundred years ago. According to one legend he could only leave the Castle upon a Sunday because of his creditors, and according to another he hid in the secret passage.

THE TOWER. Part III

In the passage about the Swan I have unconsciously echoed one of the loveliest lyrics of our time--Mr. Sturge Moore’s ‘Dying Swan’. I often recited it during an American lecturing tour, which explains the theft.

THE DYING SWAN

O silver-throated Swan Struck, struck! A golden dart Clean through thy breast has gone Home to thy heart. Thrill, thrill, O silver throat! O silver trumpet, pour Love for defiance back On him who smote! And brim, brim o’er With love; and ruby-dye thy track Down thy last living reach Of river, sail the golden light-- Enter the sun’s heart--even teach, O wondrous-gifted pain, teach thou The God to love, let him learn how!

When I wrote the lines about Plato and Plotinus I forgot that it is something in our own eyes that makes us see them as all transcendence. Has not Plotinus written: ‘Let every soul recall, then, at the outset the truth that soul is the author of all living things, that it has breathed the life into them all, whatever is nourished by earth and sea, all the creatures of the air, the divine stars in the sky; it is the maker of the sun; itself formed and ordered this vast heaven and conducts all that rhythmic motion--and it is a principle distinct from all these to which it gives law and movement and life, and it must of necessity be more honourable than they, for they gather or dissolve as soul brings them life or abandons them, but soul, since it never can abandon itself, is of eternal being’.

MEDITATIONS IN TIME OF CIVIL WAR

These poems were written at Thoor Ballylee in 1922, during the civil war. Before they were finished the Republicans blew up our ‘ancient bridge’ one midnight. They forbade us to leave the house, but were otherwise polite, even saying at last ‘Goodnight, thank you’ as though we had given them the bridge.

Section Six

In the West of Ireland we call a starling a stare, and during the civil war one built in a hole in the masonry by my bedroom window.

Section Seven, Stanza II

The cry ‘Vengeance on the murderers of Jacques Molay’, Grand Master of the Templars, seems to me fit symbol for those who labour from hatred, and so for sterility in various kinds. It is said to have been incorporated in the ritual of certain Masonic societies of the eighteenth century, and to have fed class-hatred.

Section Seven, Stanza IV

I have a ring with a hawk and a butterfly upon it, to symbolise the straight road of logic, and so of mechanism, and the crooked road of intuition: ‘For wisdom is a butterfly and not a gloomy bird of prey’.

NINETEEN HUNDRED AND NINETEEN

Section Six

The country people see at times certain apparitions whom they name now ‘fallen angels’, now ‘ancient inhabitants of the country’, and describe as riding at whiles ‘with flowers upon the heads of the horses’. I have assumed in the sixth poem that these horsemen, now that the times worsen, give way to worse. My last symbol, Robert Artisson, was an evil spirit much run after in Kilkenny at the start of the fourteenth century. Are not those who travel in the whirling dust also in the Platonic Year?

TWO SONGS FROM A PLAY

These songs are sung by the Chorus in a play that has for its theme Christ’s first appearance to the Apostles after the Resurrection, a play intended for performance in a drawing-room or studio.

AMONG SCHOOL CHILDREN

Stanza III

I have taken ‘the honey of generation’ from Porphyry’s essay on ‘The Cave of the Nymphs’, but find no warrant in Porphyry for considering it the ‘drug’ that destroys the ‘recollection’ of pre-natal freedom. He blamed a cup of oblivion given in the zodiacal sign of Cancer.

THE GIFT OF HARUN AL-RASHID

Part of an unfinished set of poems, dialogues and stories about John Ahern and Michael Robartes, Kusta ben Luka, a philosopher of Bagdad, and his Bedouin followers.

THE END

Printed in Great Britain by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh.