I\n\nI sought a theme and sought for it in vain,\nI sought it daily for six weeks or so.\nMaybe at last, being but a broken man,\nI must be satisfied with my heart, although\nWinter and summer till old age began\nMy circus animals were all on show,\nThose stilted boys, that burnished chariot,\nLion and woman and the Lord knows what.\n\nII\n\nWhat can I but enumerate old themes?\nFirst that sea-rider Oisin[footnote]Pronounced \u201cUsheen,\u201d Oisin was a hero in Irish mythology, a warrior poet, and the subject of Yeats\u2019s early epic poem, The Wanderings of Oisin<\/i>.[\/footnote]\u00a0led by the nose\nThrough three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,\nVain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,\nThemes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,\nThat might adorn old songs or courtly shows;\nBut what cared I that set him on to ride,\nI, starved for the bosom of his faery bride?\n\nAnd then a counter-truth filled out its play,\n'The Countess Cathleen' was the name I gave it;\nShe, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,\nBut masterful Heaven had intervened to save it.\nI thought my dear[footnote]Maud Gonne, who starred not in Yeats play The Countess Cathleen<\/i>, but in his 1902 play Cathleen ni Houlihan<\/i>.\u00a0She hated the British and was, indeed, a fanatical and active opponent of their rule in Ireland.[\/footnote]\u00a0must her own soul destroy,\nSo did fanaticism and hate enslave it,\nAnd this brought forth a dream and soon enough\nThis dream itself had all my thought and love.\n\nAnd when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread\nCuchulain[footnote]A hero in Irish mythology, and a recurring character in several of Yeats\u2019s plays and poems.[\/footnote]\u00a0fought the ungovernable sea;\nHeart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said\nIt was the dream itself enchanted me:\nCharacter isolated by a deed\nTo engross the present and dominate memory.\nPlayers and painted stage took all my love,\nAnd not those things that they were emblems of.\n\nIII\n\nThose masterful images because complete\nGrew in pure mind, but out of what began?\nA mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,\nOld kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,\nOld iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut\nWho keeps the till.\u00a0 Now that my ladder's gone,\nI must lie down where all the ladders start\nIn the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.\n\n\u2014<\/b> (1938 \u2013 1939)<\/p>","rendered":"
I<\/p>\n
I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,
\nI sought it daily for six weeks or so.
\nMaybe at last, being but a broken man,
\nI must be satisfied with my heart, although
\nWinter and summer till old age began
\nMy circus animals were all on show,
\nThose stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
\nLion and woman and the Lord knows what.<\/p>\n
II<\/p>\n
What can I but enumerate old themes? And then a counter-truth filled out its play, And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread III<\/p>\n Those masterful images because complete \u2014<\/b> (1938 \u2013 1939)<\/p>\n\n\t\t\t
\nFirst that sea-rider Oisin[1]<\/sup><\/a>\u00a0led by the nose
\nThrough three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
\nVain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
\nThemes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
\nThat might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
\nBut what cared I that set him on to ride,
\nI, starved for the bosom of his faery bride?<\/p>\n
\n‘The Countess Cathleen’ was the name I gave it;
\nShe, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
\nBut masterful Heaven had intervened to save it.
\nI thought my dear[2]<\/sup><\/a>\u00a0must her own soul destroy,
\nSo did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
\nAnd this brought forth a dream and soon enough
\nThis dream itself had all my thought and love.<\/p>\n
\nCuchulain[3]<\/sup><\/a>\u00a0fought the ungovernable sea;
\nHeart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
\nIt was the dream itself enchanted me:
\nCharacter isolated by a deed
\nTo engross the present and dominate memory.
\nPlayers and painted stage took all my love,
\nAnd not those things that they were emblems of.<\/p>\n
\nGrew in pure mind, but out of what began?
\nA mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
\nOld kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
\nOld iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut
\nWho keeps the till.\u00a0 Now that my ladder’s gone,
\nI must lie down where all the ladders start
\nIn the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.<\/p>\nCandela Citations<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t\t