William Butler Yeats - HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!
141 years ago on 13th June 1865 William Butler Yeats was born in Dublin, Ireland. Yeats made his writing debut in 1885 when his first published work appeared in The Dublin University Review.
Yeats died on January 28, 1939 at the Hôtel Idéal Séjour, in Menton, France.
To celebrate this well-known, respected poet's birthday Oldpoetry Team have put together a selection of his poetry for you to enjoy.
Aedh Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven
allpoetry.com/poetry/2676
A Cradle Song
oldpoetry.com/poetry/2630
A Man Young And Old - Complete
oldpoetry.com/poetry/2583
Adam's Curse
oldpoetry.com/poetry/2592
Men Improve With The Years
oldpoetry.com/poetry/2706
On Those That Hated The 'Playboy Of The Western World,' 1907
oldpoetry.com/poetry/14095
Nineteen Hundred And Nineteen
oldpoetry.com/poetry/2716
Solomon To Sheba
oldpoetry.com/poetry/2761
An Irish Airman Foresees His Death
oldpoetry.com/poetry/7460
The Ballad of Father Gilligan
oldpoetry.com/poetry/7662
The Dedication To A Book Of Stories Selected From The Irish Novelists
oldpoetry.com/poetry/17457
The Lake Isle Of Innisfree
by William Butler Yeats
oldpoetry.com/poetry/2691
The Lamentation Of The Old Pensioner
oldpoetry.com/poetry/2696
The Municipal Gallery Revisited
oldpoetry.com/poetry/2712
The Old Men Admiring Themselves In The Water
oldpoetry.com/poetry/2813
The Old Stone Cross
oldpoetry.com/poetry/2722
The Rose Tree
oldpoetry.com/poetry/2822
The Song Of The Old Mother
oldpoetry.com/poetry/2828
The Spirit Medium
oldpoetry.com/poetry/2765
The Stolen Child
oldpoetry.com/poetry/2769
The Wild Old Wicked Man
oldpoetry.com/poetry/2884
Towards Break Of Day
oldpoetry.com/poetry/2861
When You Are Old
oldpoetry.com/poetry/2881
The Rose in the Deeps of his Heart
oldpoetry.com/poetry/8498
The Second Coming
oldpoetry.com/poetry/2825
The land of faery,
Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,
Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,
Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.
Land of Heart’s Desire.
Leave a guest comment (subject to review)
Comments
-
THE EXPERIENCE OF CULTIVATED MEN
The great poet is more type than man, more passion than type. A poet always writes of his personal life and, in his finest work, out of his tragedy. Art springs from distress. For the poet there is always a phantasmagoria, a delirium, an intoxication, a chaos of ideas, often from reading. The process of creating out of deep personal feeling is one of rebirth. As the poet labours to complete his work he is reborn as an idea, something intended, complete. It is in this that the poet’s power lies. By the continuous exercise of his craftsmanship and inspiration, nature and society grows more intelligible. Part of the poet’s creative power becomes intelligible as well. In the process the poet touches the essence, the spirit, of humanity. And this touching is significantly due to the poet's sense of responsibility to his community--the polarity balanced by his freedom.
-Ron Price with thanks to Stephen Coote, W.B. Yeats: A Life, Hodder and Stoughton, London, 1997.
With no pretensions to being great,
I write so much of this for them,
as Yeats did so much and so often,
so often--for his community, that
has been so much of what he was,
in mind, body, soul. Yes, I find,
too, William, that community provides
the compass of my imaginings. Whether
in love or in utter frustration, in joy
or in weariness, or looking out from
behind my mask, for some aesthetic,
artistic, completeness
or all the world
is still a stage and all the men and women
merely players and we have the mask of our
so many selves,so many necessary, needed,
selves. With those desires for intoxication
and delight from the memory of old emotions,
with all the uncounted flavours of old
experience, emotions deepened by time and
cultivated men, constantly reanimating
received images of delight in my daily life.
Ron Price
24 May 1999
(Revised for: The Old Poetry Website)
11/7/07
That’s enough for now!
-
thank you Oldpoetry
William Butler Yeats is one of the Great poets of all times. His poetry includes a wide verity of subjects. The best of his poetic attributes is that he always uses very simple words to explain some very deep ideas. His poem, ‘For Anne Gregory’ is my favorite poem. In the end of the poem he concludes that…
'I heard an old religious man
But yesternight declare
That he had found a text to prove
That only God, my dear,
Could love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair.'
Yeats is one of the few writers whose greatest works were written after the award of the Nobel Prize. Whereas he received the Prize chiefly for his dramatic works, his significance today rests on his lyric achievement.
I believe that his birthday is 13th of June, so it’s more then a month yet to say Happy birthday to him.
By the way I am one day older than him, mine birthday is 12th of June.
Thank you oldpoetry for the birthday reminder of Mr. Yeats



