Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE MAN WHO DREAMED OF FAERYLAND, by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS Recitation Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: He stood among a crowd at drumahair Last Line: The man has found no comfort in the grave. Alternate Author Name(s): Yeats, W. B. Subject(s): Ireland; Irish | ||||||||
He stood among a crowd at Drumahair; His heart hung all upon a silken dress, And he had known at last some tenderness, Before earth made of him her sleepy care; But when a man poured fish into a pile, It seemed they raised their little silver heads, And sang how day a Druid twilight sheds Upon a dim, green, well-beloved isle, Where people love beside star-laden seas; How Time may never mar their faery vows Under the woven roofs of quicken boughs: The singing shook him out of his new ease. He wandered by the sands of Lisadill; His mind ran all on money cares and fears, And he had known at last some prudent years Before they heaped his grave under the hill; But while he passed before a plashy place, A lug-worm with its gray and muddy mouth Sand how somewhere to north or west or south There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race; And how beneath those three times blessed skies A Danaan fruitage makes a shower of moons, And as it falls awakens leafy tunes: And at that singing he was no more wise. He mused beside the well of Scanavin, He mused upon his mockers: without fail His sudden vengeance were a country tale, Now that deep earth has drunk his body in; But one small knot-grass growing by the pool Told where, ah, little, all-unneeded voice! Old Silence bids a lonely folk rejoice, And chaplet their calm brows with leafage cool, And how, when fades the sea-strewn rose of day, A gentle feeling wraps them like a fleece, And all their trouble dies into its peace: The tale drove his fine angry mood away. He slept under the hill of Lugnagall; And might have known at last unhaunted sleep Under that cold and vapour-turbaned steep, Now that old earth had taken man and all: Were not the worms that spired about his bones A-telling with their low and reedy cry, O how God learns His hands out of the sky, To bless that isle with honey in His tones; That none may feel the power of squall and wave And no one any leaf-crowned dancer miss Until He burn up Nature with a kiss: The man has found no comfort in the grave. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SIGHTSEERS by PAUL MULDOON THE DREAM SONGS: 290 by JOHN BERRYMAN AN IRISH HEADLAND by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE GIANT'S RING: BALLYLESSON, NEAR BELFAST by ROBINSON JEFFERS IRELAND; WRITTEN FOR THE ART AUTOGRAPH DURING IRISH FAMINE by SIDNEY LANIER THE EYES ARE ALWAYS BROWN by GERALD STERN SIXTEEN DEAD MEN by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS |
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