The Collected Poems of WB Yeats PDF ò The Collected

The Collected Poems of WB Yeats The Collected Poems of W B Yeats includes all of the poems authorized by Yeats for inclusion in his standard canon Breathtaking in range it encompasses the entire arc of his career from luminous reworking of ancient Irish myths and legends to passionate meditations on the demands and rewards of youth and old age from exuisite occasionally whimsical songs of love nature and art to somber and angry poems of life in a nation torn by war and uprising In observing the development of rich and recurring images and themes over the course of his body of work we can trace the uest of this century's greatest poet to unite intellect and artistry in a single magnificent visionRevised and corrected this edition includes Yeat's own notes on his poetry complemented by explanatory notes from esteemed Yeats scholar Richard J Finneran

10 thoughts on “The Collected Poems of WB Yeats

  1. Ahmad Sharabiani Ahmad Sharabiani says:

    The Collected Poems of WB Yeats The Collected Works of WB Yeats #1 WB Yeats Richard J Finneran EditorTo a child dancing in the wind Dance there upon the shore;What need have you to careFor wind or water's roar?And tumble out your hairThat the salt drops have wet;Being young you have not knownThe fool's triumph nor yetLove lost as soon as wonNor the best labourer deadAnd all the sheaves to bindWhat need have you to dreadThe monstrous crying of the wind?تاریخ نخستین خوانش بیست و نهم آگوست سال 2013 میلادیعنوان دریانوردی به سمت بیزانس؛ نویسنده و شاعر وی‍ل‍ی‍ام‌ ب‍ات‍ل‍ر ی‍ی‍ت‍س‌؛ مترجم رزا جمالی؛تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 21041399هجری خورشیدی؛ ا شربیانی

  2. Lisa Lisa says:

    For books continue each other in spite of our habit of judging them separately This uote from Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One's Own comes to my mind when I sit down to have a closer look at one of my favourite poets For it wasn’t Yeats I was searching for when I went through my shelves today It was Things Fall Apart Chinua Achebe’s classic novel Seeing Yeats in the shelf however I remembered that the title is from his famous poem “The Second Coming” and I opened the earmarked poetry collection full of post its and comments And sure enough there was a pink post it showing the way to the lines I wanted“Turning and turning in the widening gyreThe falcon cannot hear the falconer;Things fall apart the centre cannot holdMere anarchy is loosed upon the worldThe blood dimmed tide is loosed and everywhereThe ceremony of innocence is drowned;”Knowing the story of Things Fall Apart it makes my heart break to think of the proud falcon in his natural habitat suddenly threatened by the falconer with his sly methods and superior weapons killing out of pleasure a careless sportsmanship This story in my mind takes a leap to present times seeing it is still just as relevant in many places and I am mourning the contemporary falcon’s lost spirit in a world of falconers destroying things because they can The centre cannot holdReading on I get curious to see where all my sticky notes indicate that my attention was sharpened and of course I find my handwriting next to a poem on a young man going to war How could I not reading this the last time in conjunction with The Poems Of Wilfred Owen?“An Irish Airman Foresees his DeathI know that I shall meet my fateSomewhere among the clouds above;Those that I fight I do not hateThose that I guard I do not love;”The sad truth of World War I best expressed maybe in poetry or novels like All uiet on the Western Front And as a counterpoint with a sticky note in a different colour“On Being Asked For A War PoemI think it better that in times like theseA poet’s mouth be silent for in truthWe have no gift to set a statesman right;He has had enough of meddling who can pleaseA young girl in the indolence of her youthOr an old man upon a winter’s night”I remember pondering on the conundrum of accepting these lines as perfect truth while also being grateful that Yeats had not remained silent after all that he had expressed his thoughts over and over again in dramatic long narrative poems and short lyrical ones in stories of common people and kings and ueens in real life poems and fairy tales He had not been silent at all but he resisted the command to produce poetry for politicians to shout out the ancient heroic ideal “dulce et decorum est pro patria mori” before sending soldiers to living hell He wrote his own truth and that of the island he loved and the culture he cherished To review all his poems and make them justice would be a life time’s work My favourite love poem is to be found in his collection as well“When You are OldWhen you are old and grey and full of sleepAnd nodding by the fire take down this bookAnd slowly read and dream of the soft lookYour eyes had once and of their shadows deep;How many loved your moments of glad graceAnd loved your beauty with love false or trueBut one man loved the pilgrim soul in you And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing barsMurmur a little sadly how love fledAnd paced upon the mountains overheadAnd hid his face amid a crowd of stars”I can’t read that often enough “The pilgrim soul in you” sends a shiver down my spine every single time Before I close the collection my eye catches a poem that is not earmarked yet that I must have read without thinking much about it last time But now it yells out its truth to me in a disturbing way“Why should not Old Men be Mad?”Why should not old men be mad?Some have known a likely ladThat had a sound fly fisher’s wristTurn to a drunken journalist;A girl that knew all Dante onceLive to bear children to a dunce;A Helen of social welfare dreamClimb on a wagonette and screamSome think it a matter of course that chanceShould starve good men and bad advanceThat if their neighbours figured plainAs though upon a lighted screenNo single story would they findOf an unbroken happy mindA finish worthy of the startYoung men know nothing of this sortObservant old men know it well;And when they know what old books tellAnd that no better can be hadKnow why an old man should be mad”It may be a sign of me getting older that I identify and with the disillusion of experience but at the same time reading poetry like this makes me feel passionately involved in life stillYeats is a timeless treat

  3. Szplug Szplug says:

    Not everything in here works for me but Yeats is never less than a pleasure to read As others have remarked upon he's what one might describe as a proper poet his rhythmic structure and rhymes flow off of the reading tongue—and at his best he cannot be touched for the ariose beauty of his lyrical genius Before the World Was MadeIf I make the lashes dark And the eyes bright And the lips scarlet Or ask if all be right From mirror after mirror No vanity's displayed I'm looking for the face I had Before the world was made What if I look upon a man As though on my beloved And my blood be cold the while And my heart unmoved? Why should he think me cruel Or that he is betrayed? I'd have him love the thing that was Before the world was made One of my favourites below a lengthy verse that captures the very essence of disillusion amidst the wreckage of an apparent bounty of promise and progression Yeats rises to the heights yet wielding the language of ash and benightment; no paens to the fey primordiality of Eire here but rather poesy shaped with withering power Nineteen Hundred and NineteenIMany ingenious lovely things are goneThat seemed sheer miracle to the multitudeprotected from the circle of the moonThat pitches common things about There stoodAmid the ornamental bronze and stoneAn ancient image made of olive wood And gone are Phidias' famous ivoriesAnd all the golden grasshoppers and beesWe too had many pretty toys when youngA law indifferent to blame or praiseTo bribe or threat; habits that made old wrongMelt down as it were wax in the sun's rays;Public opinion ripening for so longWe thought it would outlive all future daysO what fine thought we had because we thoughtThat the worst rogues and rascals had died outAll teeth were drawn all ancient tricks unlearnedAnd a great army but a showy thing;What matter that no cannon had been turnedInto a ploughshare? Parliament and kingThought that unless a little powder burnedThe trumpeters might burst with trumpetingAnd yet it lack all glory; and perchanceThe guardsmen's drowsy chargers would not pranceNow days are dragon ridden the nightmareRides upon sleep a drunken soldieryCan leave the mother murdered at her doorTo crawl in her own blood and go scot free;The night can sweat with terror as beforeWe pieced our thoughts into philosophyAnd planned to bring the world under a ruleWho are but weasels fighting in a holeHe who can read the signs nor sink unmannedInto the half deceit of some intoxicantFrom shallow wits; who knows no work can standWhether health wealth or peace of mind were spentOn master work of intellect or handNo honour leave its mighty monumentHas but one comfort left all triumph wouldBut break upon his ghostly solitudeBut is there any comfort to be found?Man is in love and loves what vanishesWhat is there to say? That country roundNone dared admit if Such a thought were hisIncendiary or bigot could be foundTo burn that stump on the AcropolisOr break in bits the famous ivoriesOr traffic in the grasshoppers or beesIIWhen Loie Fuller's Chinese dancers enwoundA shining web a floating ribbon of clothIt seemed that a dragon of airHad fallen among dancers had whirled them roundOr hurried them off on its own furious path;So the platonic YearWhirls out new right and wrongWhirls in the old instead;All men are dancers and their treadGoes to the barbarous clangour of a gongIIISome moralist or mythological poetCompares the solitary soul to a swan;I am satisfied with thatSatisfied if a troubled mirror show itBefore that brief gleam of its life be goneAn image of its state;The wings half spread for flightThe breast thrust out in prideWhether to play or to rideThose winds that clamour of approaching nightA man in his own secret meditationIs lost amid the labyrinth that he has madeIn art or politics;Some Platonist affirms that in the stationWhere we should cast off body and tradeThe ancient habit sticksAnd that if our works couldBut vanish with our breathThat were a lucky deathFor triumph can but mar our solitudeThe swan has leaped into the desolate heavenThat image can bring wildness bring a rageTo end all things to endWhat my laborious life imagined evenThe half imagined the half written page;O but we dreamed to mendWhatever mischief seemedTo afflict mankind but nowThat winds of winter blowLearn that we were crack pated when we dreamedIVWe who seven years agoTalked of honour and of truthShriek with pleasure if we showThe weasel's twist the weasel's toothVCome let us mock at the greatThat had such burdens on the mindAnd toiled so hard and lateTo leave some monument behindNor thought of the levelling windCome let us mock at the wise;With all those calendars whereonThey fixed old aching eyesThey never saw how seasons runAnd now but gape at the sunCome let us mock at the goodThat fancied goodness might be gayAnd sick of solitudeMight proclaim a holidayWind shrieked and where are they?Mock mockers after thatThat would not lift a hand maybeTo help good wise or greatTo bar that foul storm out for weTraffic in mockeryVIViolence upon the roads violence of horses;Some few have handsome riders are garlandedOn delicate sensitive ear or tossing maneBut wearied running round and round in their coursesAll break and vanish and evil gathers headHerodias' daughters have returned againA sudden blast of dusty wind and afterThunder of feet tumult of imagesTheir purpose in the labyrinth of the wind;And should some crazy hand dare touch a daughterAll turn with amorous cries or angry criesAccording to the wind for all are blindBut now wind drops dust settles; thereuponThere lurches past his great eyes without thoughtUnder the shadow of stupid straw pale locksThat insolent fiend Robert ArtissonTo whom the love lorn Lady Kyteler broughtBronzed peacock feathers red combs of her cocks

  4. Leo . Leo . says:

    Just looking at my bookcase and brushing off some old books covered in dust Man how did I miss Yeats? Literary genius 👍🐯

  5. Biblio Curious Biblio Curious says:

    Still my favourite poet of all time Read this one cover to cover spent heaps of time leisurely sifting through these evocative elliptic lines of eternity Gyres skies stars wisdom ensues The meaning like a carefully crafted lake of silent water tilted ever so slightly that the form is just out of your mind's reach If these mysterious words draw you in make you curious perhaps this poetry collection is for you If they repel you perhaps Wordsworth is your kind of poet It takes at least a Wordsworth Blake Ovid perhaps Ferdowsi to all combine creating the mastery that is Yeats With of course the occasional rebellious spirit that's a musically gifted Morrison of mysteryWB Yeats bought a signed 1st edition of Ulysses Yeat's poetry is deeply philosophical and moving A Dialogue of Self and Soul is still a top favorite poem of all time for meReference for 1st edition info

  6. Alexis Hall Alexis Hall says:

    Okay Cards on the tableI'm not actually that into Yeats I mean he's fine don't get me wrong Kind of an interesting dude with his Cabalism and his Jacob Black esue mother to daughter romantic transference thingAnd some of his poetry I can't deny is pretty impressive stuff the one about wishing for the cloths of the heaven and the second coming and the lake isle of innisfree All that silver apples of the moon stuff Very niceBut honestly I used to keep this on my bedside table in order to look sensitive so arty types would sleep with me It uh did the job FIVE STARS

  7. Matt Matt says:

    Yeats Yeats what can you say?Ireland Mysticism Longing Despair PO etryThis is a surprisingly consistent formidable subtle and wide ranging oeuvre and I'm not the only person to have overheard the suggestion that Yeats was the greatest poet of the 20th Century Lets not forget the influence Not only in Ireland but in elsewhere as part of some variation on the human cultural inheritance As far as I can tell there were at least three major to my mind anyway poets who admitted that when they were coming up they didn't just want to be LIKE Yeats they wanted to BE Yeats as one of them put it I mean granted he's insufferably emo He Mourns the Change That Has Come Upon Him and His Beloved and He Wishes For The World To End He's tripping through the daisies twisting his ankle breaking his glasses while he sings to the sun He can't get over the fact that Maude Gonne won't let him even think about taking her shirt off but she's a uniue mercurial assured young woman with a pilgrim soul in her which her darling poet loves I mean He Who Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven When You Are Old No Second Troy Down By the Salley Gardens and on and on And then there's this I went out to the hazel woodBecause a fire was in my headAnd cut and peeled a hazel wandAnd hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wingAnd moth like stars were flickering outI dropped the berry in a streamAnd caught a little silver trout When I had laid it on the floorI went to blow the fire a flameBut something rustled on the floorAnd some one called me by my nameIt had become a glimmering girlWith apple blossom in her hairWho called me by my name and ranAnd faded through the brightening air Though I am old with wanderingThrough hollow lands and hilly landsI will find out where she has goneAnd kiss her lips and take her hands;And walk among long dappled grassAnd pluck till time and times are doneThe silver apples of the moonThe golden apples of the sun You're right there in a dream in HIS dream it's the Song of Wandering Aengus A whole enchanted world is created in perfect meter and with metronomyic lullaby You believe him somehow or at least you believe the story Do you mean to tell me that you doubt Wandering Aengus? Nu uh No way It's in the repetition of the imagery and the phrases in the last few lines It's the way the whole details of the story are told unveiled bit by bit Just a touch a glance a little Keatsian faery girl a belle dame sans merci with a perfect alibi The mysticism is there and it's hazy and er full of mist and glowing eyes and faery wings and stolen children and dolphins and mechanical birds in Byzantium and Helen of Troy and eternal roses and astrology and gods incarnating in the form of a swans while they fuck humans and darkness and eternity and the murderous innocence of the searuins and secret fountains and rolling hills and caves WBY slept in one for awhile you country boys know how it gets when the evenings wind on endlessly under a deep summer sky and witches and little clay wattle huts far from the pavement's gray by a lazy river deep in Innisfree And he can get political I mean this was a guy whose poetry and drama were front row seat essential to the literary lives and times of a centuries subjugated colonized demoralized uasi Modern nation that underwent the convulsion of the failure of the Easter Rising in his day to mention but one event amid the caterwaul of Ireland dragging itself kicking and screaming into the 20th Century Yeats was a lover not a fighter no dewy doubt about that but he grappled with the living nightmare of history with sober eyes and a wide view of the horizon By the way that living nightmare bit was deliberate ifyouknowwhatI'msayin' and rumor has it a cocky mouthy young lad once approached the smiling public man in the streets and told him that he was too old to talk some sense into him and subseuently absconded to the continent and proceeded to write Dubliners Portrait and so on and so forth It's not so much that WBY was afraid or unwilling to enter into the burgeoning roil and confusion of the modern world Lightbulbs Radios Trench Warefare Relativity uantum theory Dada Jazz Ezra Pound Girls who smoke and gleefully shag sailors and stockbrokers and poets too but not poor Willy Yeats by the looks of things much to his eternal chagrin and his glassy eyed bookish haunting of wild Ireland starts to sound like wish fulfillment or the pleasure principle I can't remember which It's that I think he played a smallish but significant part in a larger complex historically embedded and uite bloody awful historical moment I mean he had to live with praising the soldier who was married to his beloved and screwing around on her btw for the record in a stoic and bitter and ruminating poem about a failed rebellion which he definitively supported and he was big enough to bite down hard and publish the thing anyway No I think it's ok to give WBY the benefit of the doubt on this one Mad Ireland hurt him into poetry He knew damn well that words can have conseuences just like actions and it's all well and good to huddle up by a candle in the library and proclaim your love for a woman or for the motherland or for Freedom and Justice or whatever but it's uite something else indeed to publicly submit one's statements for the record when everybody's listening All that I have said and doneNow that I am old and illTurns into a uestion tillI lie awake night after nightAnd never get the answers rightDid that play of mine send outCertain men the English shot?Did words of mine put too great strainOn that woman’s reeling brain?Could my spoken words have checkedThat whereby a house lay wrecked? It takes a lot of sand to ask yourself that uestion Then there's this How many times has this been uoted from all over the body of the poem particularly in places where its ominousness and austere power of facing the apocalyptic mood that slowly spreads from word to word from image to imagethe speaker knows all this somehow and he is just as overwhelmed by it as anyone else The best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity 'Twas it not ever thus? Where else? You can go for days I had a teacher for Irish lit who once remarked uite off the cuff that nobody gets out of a line that WBY By way of demonstration That civilisation may not sinkIts great battle lostuiet the dog tehter the ponyTo a distant post;Our master Caesar is in the tentWhere the maps are spreadHis eyes fixed upon nothingA hand upon his headLike a long legged fly upon the streamHis mind moves upon silenceThat the topless towers be burntAnd men recall that faceMove most gently if move you mustIn this lonely placeShe thinks part woman three parts a childThat nobody looks; her feetPractise a tinker shufflePicked up on a streetLike a long legged fly upon the streamHer mind moves upon silenceThat girls at puberty may findThe first Adam in their thoughtShut the door of the Pope's chapelKeep those children outThere on that scaffolding residesMichael AngeloWith no sound than the mice makeHis hand moves to and froLike a long legged fly upon the streamHis mind moves upon silence You know that feeling you get when poetry happens? That uiet satisfied hum that you do after the poem has finished and begins to dissipate into the air After the visitation That uiet hushed ruminating feeling Something is happening here and you don't know what it is My best friend is a big fan of the show Lost I've never seen it myself but it comes highly recommended and all that The point being he is fond of uoting the character Dexter who is I think a Scottish guy given to charisma andor elouence or something He's find of uoting Dexter's exultant exuberant phrase that's just POETRY bruther I've never heard him actually say it but I think I know what he means What it is What he's getting at What it's all about And if this stuff isn't it then count me out of the human race Now granted the three poets I'm thinking of Philip Larkin John Berryman and Del Schwartz if you're keeping score at home and you should be were in their ways degenerate pathetic alcoholics and therefore their somewhat maudlin affections for WBY might have been some kind of unconscious identification or projection onto the starry eyed gnomic singer of ballads and player of harps and whatnot but still Influence is a big indicator of admiration y'see like imitation and flattery especially in the notoriously competitive vineyards of literature

  8. Alan Alan says:

    I have given hourlong recitations of Yeats's poems among the easiest to recall in English; for example his tetrameters in the late Under Ben Bulben which contains his epitaph I defy you to say this aloud three times without knowing most of it by heart Whether man dies in his bed Or the rifle knocks him dead A brief parting from those dear Is the worst man has to fear And his own epitaph is memorable Cast a cold eye On life on death Horseman pass by It is anti conventional since most epitaphs were written by clergy to scare the readers back to church like this one in Pittsfield MA Corruption earth and worms Shall but refine this flesh etc I seriously doubt the interred was consulted about that one Yeats counters look at this grave and fogggetaboutit Pass by By memory I still have When you are old his adaptation of Ronsard Lake Isle of Innisfree so imitative of the water lapping the shores in its medial caesuras I hear lake water lappingThough I stand on the roadwayI shall arise and go now And so interesting that WBY first had a truism There noon is all a glimmer and midnight a purple glow which he reversed to the memorable There midnight's all a glimmer and noon has a purple glow Ahh a useful trick for writers My PhD advisor Leonard Unger noted the influence of Meredith on Innisfree The Second Coming whose opening I said in my flight fears of landing The problem in reciting that poem is The worst are full of passionate intensity I had to reduce the intensity of my aloudreading Sailing to Byzantium and others I have also set to music seven of Yeats' poems including Brown Penny Her Anxiety Lullaby and even Crazy Jane talks to the Bishop Brown Penny and Her Anxiety can be heard on clypit under FB pseudonym Alan Bruno Glen McKillop on Fleugel Horn Scroll down past my other music compositions like Dylan Thomas's Death Shall Have No Dominion for SATB cello teombone and again Fleugel Horn and a few nature recordings like Yeats's lake water lapping at a local reservoir Yeats's son Michael fathered in his late fifties toured the US in the 70s A friend in the Berkshires heard him recall his father mainly shooing him from the room to write or recite Sounds accurate Maybe that's why Shakespeare lived in London his kids in Stratford I mentioned learning Yeats at Leonard Unger's knee but also from Chester Anderson Joycean and Irish specialist

  9. Steven Walle Steven Walle says:

    The poetry was very good but rather depressing I believe he could have used some happy pills I would recommend it to all howeverEnjoy and Be Blessed

  10. Manny Manny says:

    My favourite piece of Yeats which I've known since I was a teenager I've never really figured out what it means but I think it's wonderful all the sameRose of all Roses Rose of all the World You too have come where the dim tides are hurled Upon the wharves of sorrow and heard ring The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing Beauty grown sad with its eternity Made you of us and of the dim grey sea Our long ships loose thought woven sails and wait For God has bid them share an eual fate; And when at last defeated in His wars They have gone down under the same white stars We shall no longer hear the little cry Of our sad hearts that may not live nor die

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *