GENTLE MUSIC & WORDS FOR THE WEEK

 

I hope you won’t mind me playing this, it reminds me of my Granddad and the songs he would sing all day long.  The Poetry chosen by me is by;

WILLIAM BUTLER YATES

 

William Butler Yates was born in Dublin on June 13, 1865.  He studied to become a painter, like his father, but abandoned that profession in 1886 in favour of literature.  He was heavily involved in the movement for an Irish Literary revival and founded The Irish Literary Theatre with Lady Gregory, becoming its chief playwright.  Yeats’ interest in Irish national and traditional myths and imagery can be seen in his early poetry, such as The Wanderings of Oisin and Other Poems (1889), and he also influenced by his enduring unrequited love for the young heiress Maude Gonne.  In 1913 Yeats met the poet Ezra Pound and from that point his writing began to move away from the earlier Pre-Raphaelite style towards modernism.  Yeats married Georgie Hyde-Lees in 1917 and with the help of his wife, and informed by his interest in mysticism, he developed a system of “automatic writing” which profoundly affected the poetry of his later years.   Yeats served as a Senator of The Irish Free State  from  1922 to 1928 and received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1923.   He died in the south of France in January 1939.

============================================================================THE WHEEL

Through winter-time we  call on spring,

And through the spring on summer call,

And when abounding hedges ring

Declare that winter’s best of all;

And after that there’s nothing good

Because the spring-time has not come –

Nor know that what disturbs our blood

Is but its longing for the tomb.

 

YOUTH AND AGE

Much did I rage when young,

Being by the world oppressed,

But  now with flattering tongue

It speeds the parting guest.

(1924)

 

TO A CHILD DANCING IN THE WIND

Dance there upon the shore;

What need have you to care

For wind or water’s roar?

And tumble out your hair

That the salt drops have wet;

Being young you have not known

The fool’s triumph,  nor yet

Love lost as soon as won,

Nor the best

labourer dead

And all the sheaves to bind,

What need have you to dread

The monstrous crying of wind?

 

THE LOVER’S SONG

Bird sighs for the air,

Thought for I know not where,

For the womb the seed sighs,

Now sinks the same rest

On mind, on nest,

On straining thighs.

 

============================================================================

It is said, so I believe, that when an Irish woman dies she becomes a beautiful Swan.  Such a lovely romantic thought to become a Swan and glide over the glistening Irish waters for ever and a day.  I plan to have my Ashes scattered in Killarney, Kerry when that time comes, maybe I’ll become a Swan that glides over the Killarney Lakes.    Too romantic a thought, sorry thats me.  Do hope you enjoyed the above.

 

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