Not much to say here these days. Just too busy and too stressed and too….wordless? Yeah…that almost sums it up. So, I’ve decided to keep letting my favourite poets say it all for me. Today, I’m in a William Butler Yeats mood…actually, I’m almost always in a Yeats mood, but even more so today. So those of you that might be particular to his poetry are in for a bit of a treat! Here are a few of my favourites!


O sweet everlasting Voices, be still;
Go to the guards of the heavenly fold
And bid them wander obeying your will,
Flame under flame, till Time be no more;
Have you not heard that our hearts are old,
That you call in birds, in wind on the hill,
In shaken boughs, in tide on the shore?
O sweet everlasting Voices, be still.


O what to me the little room
That was brimmed up with prayer and rest;
He bade me out into the gloom,
And my breast lies upon his breast.

O what to me my mother’s care,
The house where I was safe and warm;
The shadowy blossom of my hair
Will hide us from the bitter storm.

O hiding hair and dewy eyes,
I am no more with life and death,
My heart upon his warm heart lies,
My breath is mixed into his breath.


When I play on my fiddle in Dooney.
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Mocharabuiee.

I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.

When we come at the end of time
To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate;

For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle,
And the merry love to dance:

And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With ‘Here is the fiddler of Dooney!’
And dance like a wave of the sea.


THE brawling of a sparrow in the eaves,
The brilliant moon and all the milky sky,
And all that famous harmony of leaves,
Had blotted out man’s image and his cry.

A girl arose that had red mournful lips
And seemed the greatness of the world in tears,
Doomed like Odysseus and the labouring ships
And proud as Priam murdered with his peers;

Arose, and on the instant clamorous eaves,
A climbing moon upon an empty sky,
And all that lamentation of the leaves,
Could but compose man’s image and his cry.

Hopefully this will satiate my Yeatsean desires! Although I’m sure it won’t. But I won’t bore you all with any more of his poetry for today, though. Instead, I’ll go read them for myself. 🙂 And maybe I’ll get some time to actually write something of my own, instead of relying on the poets of old to write it for me. Maybe…but I have to admit I am enjoying this immensely. The poets of old are little read anymore, I fear. Their works need to be dug out of obscurity and again put into the limelight they deserve. Maybe then we will be able to get back so much of what we have lost…but then again, maybe I’m just far too sentimental.