The Green Helmet and Other Poems

William Butler Yeats

The Green Helmet and Other Poems

HIS DREAM

Crying amid the glittering sea,Naming it with ecstatic breath,Because it had such dignityBy the sweet name of Death.Though I’d my finger on my lip,What could I but take up the song?And fish and crowd and gaudy shipCried out the whole night long,And fishes bubbling to the brimCried out upon that thing beneath,It had such dignity of limb,By the sweet name of Death.And though I would have hushed the crowdThere was no mother’s son but said,“What is the figure in a shroudUpon a gaudy bed?”I swayed upon the gaudy sternThe butt end of a steering oar,And everywhere that I could turnMen ran upon the shore.

A WOMAN HOMER SUNG

For she had fiery bloodWhen I was young,And trod so sweetly proudAs ’twere upon a cloud,A woman Homer sung,That life and letters seemBut an heroic dream.Whereon I wrote and wrought,And now, being gray,I dream that I have broughtTo such a pitch my thoughtThat coming time can say,“He shadowed in a glassWhat thing her body was.”If any man drew nearWhen I was young,I thought, “He holds her dear,”And shook with hate and fear.But oh, ’twas bitter wrongIf he could pass her byWith an indifferent eye.

THAT THE NIGHT COME

She lived in storm and strife.Her soul had such desireFor what proud death may bringThat it could not endureThe common good of life,But lived as ’twere a kingThat packed his marriage dayWith banneret and pennon,Trumpet and kettledrum,And the outrageous cannon,To bundle Time awayThat the night come.

THE CONSOLATION

That had she done so who can sayWhat would have shaken from the sieve?I might have thrown poor words awayAnd been content to live.That every year I have cried, “At lengthMy darling understands it all,Because I have come into my strength,And words obey my call.”And I grew weary of the sunUntil my thoughts cleared up again,Remembering that the best I have doneWas done to make it plain;I had this thought awhile ago,“My darling cannot understandWhat I have done, or what would doIn this blind bitter land.”

FRIENDS

Now must I these three praise —Three women that have wroughtWhat joy is in my days;One that no passing thought,Nor those unpassing cares,No, not in these fifteenMany times troubled years,Could ever come betweenHeart and delighted heart;And one because her handHad strength that could unbindWhat none can understand,What none can have and thrive,Youth’s dreamy load, till sheSo changed me that I liveLabouring in ecstasy.And what of her that tookAll till my youth was goneWith scarce a pitying look?How should I praise that one?When day begins to breakI count my good and bad,Being wakeful for her sake,Remembering what she had,What eagle look still shows,While up from my heart’s rootSo great a sweetness flowsI shake from head to foot.

NO SECOND TROY

Why should I blame her that she filled my daysWith misery, or that she would of lateHave taught to ignorant men most violent ways,Or hurled the little streets upon the great,Had they but courage equal to desire?What could have made her peaceful with a mindThat nobleness made simple as a fire,With beauty like a tightened bow, a kindThat is not natural in an age like this,Being high and solitary and most stern?Why, what could she have done being what she is?Was there another Troy for her to burn?

RECONCILIATION

Some may have blamed you that you took awayThe verses that could move them on the dayWhen, the ears being deafened, the sight of the eyes blindWith lightning you went from me, and I could findNothing to make a song about but kings,Helmets, and swords, and half-forgotten thingsThat were like memories of you – but nowWe’ll out, for the world lives as long ago;And while we’re in our laughing, weeping fit,Hurl helmets, crowns, and swords into the pit.But, dear, cling close to me; since you were gone,My barren thoughts have chilled me to the bone.

KING AND NO KING

“Would it were anything but merely voice!”The No King cried who after that was King,Because he had not heard of anythingThat balanced with a word is more than noise;Yet Old Romance being kind, let him prevailSomewhere or somehow that I have forgot,Though he’d but cannon – Whereas we that had thoughtTo have lit upon as clean and sweet a taleHave been defeated by that pledge you gaveIn momentary anger long ago;And I that have not your faith, how shall I knowThat in the blinding light beyond the graveWe’ll find so good a thing as that we have lost?The hourly kindness, the day’s common speech,The habitual content of each with eachWhen neither soul nor body has been crossed.

THE COLD HEAVEN

Suddenly I saw the cold and rook delighting HeavenThat seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,And thereupon imagination and heart were drivenSo wild, that every casual thought of that and thisVanished, and left but memories, that should be out of seasonWith the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago;And I took all the blame out of all sense and reason,Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,Riddled with light. Ah! when the ghost begins to quicken,Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sentOut naked on the roads, as the books say, and strickenBy the injustice of the skies for punishment?

PEACE

Ah, that Time could touch a formThat could show what Homer’s ageBred to be a hero’s wage.“Were not all her life but storm,Would not painters paint a formOf such noble lines” I said.“Such a delicate high head,So much sternness and such charm,Till they had changed us to like strength?”Ah, but peace that comes at length,Came when Time had touched her form.

AGAINST UNWORTHY PRAISE

O heart, be at peace, becauseNor knave nor dolt can breakWhat’s not for their applause,Being for a woman’s sake.Enough if the work has seemed,So did she your strength renew,A dream that a lion had dreamedTill the wilderness cried aloud,A secret between you two,Between the proud and the proud.What, still you would have their praise!But here’s a haughtier text,The labyrinth of her daysThat her own strangeness perplexed;And how what her dreaming gaveEarned slander, ingratitude,From self-same dolt and knave;Aye, and worse wrong than these.Yet she, singing upon her road,Half lion, half child, is at peace.

THE FASCINATION OF WHAT’S DIFFICULT

The fascination of what’s difficultHas dried the sap out of my veins, and rentSpontaneous joy and natural contentOut of my heart. There’s something ails our coltThat must, as if it had not holy blood,Nor on an Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud,Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and joltAs though it dragged road metal. My curse on playsThat have to be set up in fifty ways,On the day’s war with every knave and dolt,Theatre business, management of men.I swear before the dawn comes round againI’ll find the stable and pull out the bolt.

A DRINKING SONG

Wine comes in at the mouthAnd love comes in at the eye;That’s all we shall know for truthBefore we grow old and die.I lift the glass to my mouth,I look at you, and I sigh.

THE COMING OF WISDOM WITH TIME

Though leaves are many, the root is one;Through all the lying days of my youthI swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;Now I may wither into the truth.

ON HEARING THAT THE STUDENTS OF OUR NEW UNIVERSITY HAVE JOINED THE ANCIENT ORDER OF HIBERNIANS AND THE AGITATION AGAINST IMMORAL LITERATURE

Where, where but here have Pride and Truth,That long to give themselves for wage,To shake their wicked sides at youthRestraining reckless middle-age.

TO A POET, WHO WOULD HAVE ME PRAISE CERTAIN BAD POETS, IMITATORS OF HIS AND MINE

You say, as I have often given tongueIn praise of what another’s said or sung,’Twere politic to do the like by these;But where’s the wild dog that has praised his fleas?

THE ATTACK ON THE “PLAY BOY”

Once, when midnight smote the air,Eunuchs ran through Hell and metRound about Hell’s gate, to stareAt great Juan riding by,And like these to rail and sweat,Maddened by that sinewy thigh.

A LYRIC FROM AN UNPUBLISHED PLAY

“Put off that mask of burning goldWith emerald eyes.”“O no, my dear, you make so boldTo find if hearts be wild and wise,And yet not cold.”“I would but find what’s there to find,Love or deceit.”

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