The Complete Works. William Butler Yeats

named me.

      I lie rolled up under the ragged thorns

      That are upon the edge of those great waters

      Where all things vanish away, and I have heard

      Murmurs that are the ending of all sound.

      I am out of life; I am rolled up, and yet,

      Hedgehog although I am, I’ll not unroll

      For you, King’s dog! Go to the King, your master.

      Crouch down and wag your tail, for it may be

      He has nothing now against you, and I think

      The stripes of your last beating are all healed.

      [The SOLDIER has drawn his sword.

      CHAMBERLAIN.

       [Striking up sword.]

      Put up your sword, sir; put it up, I say!

      The common sort would tear you into pieces

      If you but touched him.

      SOLDIER.

      If he’s to be flattered,

      Petted, cajoled, and dandled into humour,

      We might as well have left him at the table.

      [Goes to one side sheathing sword.

      SEANCHAN.

      You must need keep your patience yet awhile,

      For I have some few mouthfuls of sweet air

      To swallow before I have grown to be as civil

      As any other dust.

      CHAMBERLAIN.

      You wrong us, Seanchan.

      There is none here but holds you in respect;

      And if you’d only eat out of this dish,

      The King would show how much he honours you.

      [Bowing and smiling.

      Who could imagine you’d so take to heart

      Being put from the high table? I am certain

      That you, if you will only think it over,

      Will understand that it is men of law,

      Leaders of the King’s armies, and the like,

      That should sit there.

      SEANCHAN.

      Somebody has deceived you,

      Or maybe it was your own eyes that lied,

      In making it appear that I was driven

      From the King’s table. You have driven away

      The images of them that weave a dance

      By the four rivers in the mountain garden.

      CHAMBERLAIN.

      You mean we have driven poetry away.

      But that’s not altogether true, for I,

      As you should know, have written poetry.

      And often when the table has been cleared,

      And candles lighted, the King calls for me,

      And I repeat it him. My poetry

      Is not to be compared with yours; but still,

      Where I am honoured, poetry is honoured—

      In some measure.

      SEANCHAN.

      If you are a poet,

      Cry out that the King’s money would not buy,

      Nor the high circle consecrate his head,

      If poets had never christened gold, and even

      The moon’s poor daughter, that most whey-faced metal,

      Precious; and cry out that none alive

      Would ride among the arrows with high heart,

      Or scatter with an open hand, had not

      Our heady craft commended wasteful virtues.

      And when that story’s finished, shake your coat

      Where little jewels gleam on it, and say,

      A herdsman, sitting where the pigs had trampled,

      Made up a song about enchanted kings,

      Who were so finely dressed, one fancied them

      All fiery, and women by the churn

      And children by the hearth caught up the song

      And murmured it, until the tailors heard it.

      CHAMBERLAIN.

      If you would but eat something you’d find out

      That you have had these thoughts from lack of food,

      For hunger makes us feverish.

      SEANCHAN.

      Cry aloud,

      That when we are driven out we come again

      Like a great wind that runs out of the waste

      To blow the tables flat; and thereupon

      Lie down upon the threshold till the King

      Restore to us the ancient right of the poets.

      MONK.

      You cannot shake him. I will to the King,

      And offer him consolation in his trouble,

      For that man there has set his teeth to die.

      And being one that hates obedience,

      Discipline, and orderliness of life,

      I cannot mourn him.

      FIRST GIRL.

      ’Twas you that stirred it up.

      You stirred it up that you might spoil our dancing.

      Why shouldn’t we have dancing? We’re not in Lent.

      Yet nobody will pipe or play to us;

      And they will never do it if he die.

      And that is why you are going.

      MONK.

      What folly’s this?

      FIRST GIRL.

      Well, if you did not do it, speak to him—

      Use your authority; make him obey you.

      What harm is there in dancing?

      MONK.

      Hush! begone!

      Go to the fields and watch the hurley players,

      Or any other place you have a mind to.

      This is not woman’s work.

      FIRST GIRL.

      Come! let’s away!

      We can do nothing here.

      MONK.

      The pride of the poets!

      Dancing, hurling, the country full of noise,

      And King and Church neglected. Seanchan,

      I’ll take my leave, for you are perishing

      Like all that let the wanton imagination

      Carry them where it will, and it’s not likely

      I’ll look upon your living face again.

      SEANCHAN.

      Come