Inspired Prose | The Celtic Twilight | W. B. (William Butler) Yeats

book: The Celtic Twilight | W. B. (William Butler) Yeats

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	• The Celtic Twilight W. B. (William Butler) Yeats Hard Press, 2006 - 96 pages average customer review:based on 2 reviews view larger image
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An Excellent Guide to Understanding Yeats' Early Poetry

When Robert Frost (A not very likable fellow, when you read his biographies, despite his excellent poetry.) visited Yeats in Ireland, he made a comment to the effect that, "It's no wonder he believes in faeries." He was responding to the beautiful, mystical Irish landscape Yeats grew up in. This book, even though you're (probably) not in Ireland when you read it, will have you responding much as Frost did. The peasantry have so much of their pagan ancestry in their blood that, despite their ostensible Catholicism, their deep belief in "the little people" comes out as strong as ever when questioned about it. Reading these anecdotes, some of them grafted directly onto Yeats' early poetry, gives them a power they would not have had you not read this book and realized how "here and now" faeryland was to the common people at the time. The Celtic belief that death (into Faeryland)is far more desirable than birth is made beautifully apparent in this book. Hence, by the way, the celebratory Irish wake. Hence also this lovely poem

Heardst thou not sweet words among That Heaven-resounding minstrelsy? Heardst thou not that those who die Awake in a world of ecstacy? That love, when limbs are interwoven, And sleep when the night of life is cloven, And thought, to the world's dim boudaries clinging, And music, when one beloved is singing, Is death?

These sorts of things, as well as Yeats' poetry, are worth deep consideration in this present world where medicine is deemed omnipotent...and yet, nevertheless, we all die.

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Inspired Prose

I had heard of William Butler Yeats, and I must say he is quite an excellent poet. The dreams I had of the old worlds came to life in this.

I have desired, like every artist, to create a little world out of the beautiful, pleasant, and significant things of this marred and clumsy world, and to show in a vision something of the face of Ireland to any of my own people who would look where I bid them. I have therefore written down accurately and candidly much that I have heard and seen, and, except by way of commentary, nothing that I have merely imagined. I have, however, been at no pains to separate my own beliefs from those of the peasantry, but have rather let my men and women, dhouls and færies, go their way unoffended or defended by any argument of mine. The things a man has heard and seen are threads of life, and if he pull them carefully from the confused distaff of memory, any who will can weave them into whatever garments of belief please them best. I too have woven my garment like another, but I shall try to keep warm in it, and shall be well content if it do not unbecome me. Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a little.

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