Thursday, 14 June 2007

From "In memory of W. B. Yeats"

II.

You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.

~ W. H. Auden:

1 comment:

Bandersnatchi said...

I simply adore W.B.Yeats' poetry.
Ever since I was introduced to it by my A-level courses at Portsmouth Grammar School. heh.

I didn't really appreciate him then but have since come to enjoy his work immensely.
I have posted a poem I wrote about Maude Gonne on my blog if you're interested.

thanks for sharing the Auden verse.

bander