I
My Soul , I summon to the winding ancient stair;
Set all your mind upon the steep ascent,
Upon the broken, crumbling battlement,
Upon the breathless starlit air,
"Upon the star that marks the hidden pole;
Fix every wandering thought upon
That quarter where all thought is done:
Who can distinguish darkness from the soul
My Self . The consecretes blade upon my knees
Is Sato's ancient blade, still as it was,
Still razor-keen, still like a looking-glass
Unspotted by the centuries;
That flowering, silken, old embroidery, torn
From some court-lady's dress and round
The wodden scabbard bound and wound
Can, tattered, still protect, faded adorn
My Soul . Why should the imagination of a man
Long past his prime remember things that are
Emblematical of love and war?
Think of ancestral night that can,
If but imagination scorn the earth
And intellect is wandering
To this and that and t'other thing,
Deliver from the crime of death and birth.
My self . Montashigi, third of his family, fashioned it
Five hundred years ago, about it lie
Flowers from I know not what embroidery —
Heart's purple — and all these I set
For emblems of the day against the tower
Emblematical of the night,
And claim as by a soldier's right
A charter to commit the crime once more.
My Soul. Such fullness in that quarter overflows
And falls into the basin of the mind
That man is stricken deaf and dumb and blind,
For intellect no longer knows
I, Is from the I, Ought, or I knower from the I Known —
That is to say, ascends to Heaven;
Only the dead can be forgiven;
But when I think of that my tongue's a stone.
II
My Self . A living man is blind and drinks his drop.
What matter if the ditches are impure?
What matter if I live it all once more?
Endure that toil of growing up;
The ignominy of boyhood; the distress
Of boyhood changing into man;
The unfinished man and his pain
Brought face to face with his own clumsiness;
The finished man among his enemies? —
How in the name of Heaven can he escape
That defiling and disfigured shape
The mirror of malicious eyes
Casts upon his eyes until at last
He thinks that shape must be his shape?
And what's the good of an escape
If honour find him in the wintry blast?
I am content to live it all again
And yet again, if it be life to pitch
Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch,
A blind man battering blind men;
Or into that most fecund ditch of all,
The folly that man does
Or must suffer, if he woos
A proud woman not kindred of his soul.
I am content to follow to its source
Every event in action or in thought;
Measure the lot; forgive myself the lot!
When such as I cast out remorse
So great a sweetness flows into the breast
We must laugh and we must sing,
We are blest by everything,
Everything we look upon is blest.
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lines 1 to 9 ... soul speak about the journey of soul till it reaches the empty stage... devoid of thoughts...
the word 'quarter' refers to this stage... as it is the minimal phase just enough... to transcend darkness... and find light
lines 10 to 17... the mortal self or mind speaks about his sacred soul, still ageless and keen after mnay years of life, but not enlightened... and the body is tattered due to old age, yet still protects the soul... only as a faded decoration ... since the soul is not enlightened
lines 18 to 25... the soul questions about the contemplations of soul about love and war... and the need for it... and the answer could be deliverance from crime, evil or misery from birth to death... in search of peace...
lines 26 to 33... the self speaks about
wars and soldier's rights... not neccessarily in terms of justice, though...
lines 34 to 41... as a continuation of the lines 1 - 9 dialogue.. the soul speaks about...
the tranquility and completeness of the quarter phase... filling the depths of minds...
that man becomes deaf, dumb and blind towards worldy affairs and... and the self or ego becoming non existence... so even intellectuality cannot discern his 'self' from his 'soul'...
seems like ... lines 42 to 75... the self speaks about... man blinded by ignorance and imbibing dark thoughts from negative minds ...
and also it contemplates about the distress of failures and complexities through the various phases of growth and maturity ... the regrets of past...
and to cast away such regrets and live in the present ... would be a blessing and true happiness...
hoping I was able to understand the meaning atleast partly...
liked the attempt of natural expression... making the subject seem simple and uncomplicated ... -
My verdict? A wonderful poem, one worth returning to--and I think that it
I was just passing through--and I will certainly come back to this poem. But, since I noticed that you all are interested in the Marvell allusion, I thought to suggest Donne's "Ecstasy" as well. The neat thing about that poem is that it can be about the individual alone (body-soul dialogue) and it can be about a social relationship, particularly a sexual/marital relationship. -
Lovespoon, this poem is believed to have been inspired by Andrew Marvell's poem " A Dialogue between the soul and the body." Which Yeats read in 'Metaphisical Lyrics and Poems,' (edited by J.J.C.Grierson 1921). This would explain W.B's choice in the title.
Andrew
(info from "York Notes On Selected Poems, W.B.Yeats." by A.N.Jeffares, York Press (1993) -
OK. Mystical poet writing a mystical poem. Well done even though the title is overwritten. Better title might be: Self and Soul Dialogue.
Structure:
I found this the most interesting of all about this. It appears to be linked quatrains of the sonnet meter. This pattern breaks down a bit here:
i{Is} from the i{Ought,} or i{knower} from the i{Known -- }
But then it picks back up the quatrain format for the most part.
I found the brackets distracting. I don't think they did it like that originally. Maybe like this:
My Soul:
I summon to the winding ancient stair;
Set all your mind upon the steep ascent,
Upon the broken, crumbling battlement,
Upon the breathless starlit air,
"Upon the star that marks the hidden pole;
Fix every wandering thought upon
That quarter where all thought is done:
Who can distinguish darkness from the soul
Or like:
My Self: The consecretes blade upon my knees
Is Sato's ancient blade, still as it was,
Still razor-keen, still like a looking-glass
Unspotted by the centuries;
That flowering, silken, old embroidery, torn
From some court-lady's dress and round
The wodden scabbard bound and wound
Can, tattered, still protect, faded adorn
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This is my favorite poem, by any poet of any time. Perhaps not a very profound thing to say, but it's the only thing I can say to even attempt to say that would do justic to Yeat's genius. I also feel that I understand it fairly well, so e-mail me if you would wish to discuss it.
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