The Complete Works. William Butler Yeats

rise, wing above wing, flame above flame,

      And, like a storm, cry the Ineffable Name,

      And with the clashing of their sword blades make

      A rapturous music, till the morning break,

      And the white hush end all, but the loud beat

      Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet.

THE SONG OF THE HAPPY SHEPHERD

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      The woods of Arcady are dead,

      And over is their antique joy;

      Of old the world on dreaming fed;

      Gray Truth is now her painted toy;

      Yet still she turns her restless head:

      But O, sick children of the world,

      Of all the many changing things

      In dreary dancing past us whirled,

      To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,

      Words alone are certain good.

      Where are now the warring kings,

      Word bemockers?—By the Rood

      Where are now the warring kings?

      An idle word is now their glory,

      By the stammering schoolboy said,

      Reading some entangled story:

      The kings of the old time are fled.

      The wandering earth herself may be

      Only a sudden flaming word,

      In clanging space a moment heard,

      Troubling the endless reverie.

      Then no wise worship dusty deeds,

      Nor seek—for this is also sooth—

      To hunger fiercely after truth,

      Lest all thy toiling only breeds

      New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth

      Saving in thine own heart. Seek, then,

      No learning from the starry men,

      Who follow with the optic glass

      The whirling ways of stars that pass;

      Seek, then—for this is also sooth—

      No word of theirs: the cold star-bane

      Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain,

      And dead is all their human truth.

      Go, gather by the humming sea

      Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell,

      And to its lips thy story tell,

      And they thy comforters will be,

      Rewording in melodious guile

      Thy fretful words a little while,

      Till they shall singing fade in ruth,

      And die a pearly brotherhood;

      For words alone are certain good:

      Sing, then, for this is also sooth.

      I must be gone: there is a grave

      Where daffodil and lily wave,

      And I would please the hapless faun,

      Buried under the sleepy ground,

      With mirthful songs before the dawn.

      His shouting days with mirth were crowned;

      And still I dream he treads the lawn,

      Walking ghostly in the dew,

      Pierced by my glad singing through,

      My songs of old earth’s dreamy youth:

      But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou!

      For fair are poppies on the brow:

      Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.

THE SAD SHEPHERD

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      There was a man whom Sorrow named his friend,

      And he, of his high comrade Sorrow dreaming,

      Went walking with slow steps along the gleaming

      And humming sands, where windy surges wend:

      And he called loudly to the stars to bend

      From their pale thrones and comfort him, but they

      Among themselves laugh on and sing alway:

      And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend

      Cried out, Dim sea, hear my most piteous story!

      The sea swept on and cried her old cry still,

      Rolling along in dreams from hill to hill;

      He fled the persecution of her glory

      And, in a far-off, gentle valley stopping,

      Cried all his story to the dewdrops glistening,

      But naught they heard, for they are always listening,

      The dewdrops, for the sound of their own dropping.

      And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend,

      Sought once again the shore, and found a shell

      And thought, I will my heavy story tell

      Till my own words, re-echoing, shall send

      Their sadness through a hollow, pearly heart;

      And my own tale again for me shall sing,

      And my own whispering words be comforting,

      And lo! my ancient burden may depart.

      Then he sang softly nigh the pearly rim;

      But the sad dweller by the sea-ways lone

      Changed all he sang to inarticulate moan

      Among her wildering whirls, forgetting him.

THE CLOAK, THE BOAT, AND THE SHOES

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      ‘What do you make so fair and bright?’

      ‘I make the cloak of Sorrow:

      O, lovely to see in all men’s sight

      Shall be the cloak of Sorrow,

      In all men’s sight.’

      ‘What do you build with sails for flight?’

      ‘I build a boat for Sorrow,

      O, swift on the seas all day and night

      Saileth the rover Sorrow,

      All day and night.’

      ‘What do you weave with wool so white?’

      ‘I weave the shoes of Sorrow,

      Soundless