I

    What shall I do with this absurdity—

    O heart， O troubled heart—this caricature，

    Decrepit age that has been tied to me

    As to a dog‘s tail？

    Never had I more

    Excited， passionate， fantastical

    Imagination， nor an ear and eye

    That more expected the impossible—

    No， not in boyhood when with rod and fly，

    Or the humbler worm， I climbed Ben Bulben‘s back

    And had the livelong summer day to spend.

    It seems that I must bid the Muse go pack，

    Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend

    Until imagination， ear and eye，

    Can be content with argument and deal

    In abstract things； or be derided by

    A sort of battered kettle at the heel.

    II

    I pace upon the battlements and stare

    On the foundations of a house， or where

    Tree， like a sooty finger， starts from the earth；

    And send imagination forth

    Under the day‘s declining beam， and call

    Images and memories

    From ruin or from ancient trees，

    For I would ask a question of them all.

    Beyond that ridge lived Mrs. French， and once

    When every silver candlestick or sconce

    Lit up the dark mahogany and the wine，

    A serving-man， that could divine

    That most respected lady‘s every wish，

    Ran and with the garden shears

    Clipped an insolent farmer‘s ears

    And brought them in a little covered dish.

    Some few remembered still when I was young

    A peasant girl commended by a song，

    Who‘d lived somewhere upon that rocky place，

    And praised the colour of her face，

    And had the greater joy in praising her，

    Remembering that， if walked she there，

    Farmers jostled at the fair

    So great a glory did the song confer.

    And certain men， being maddened by those rhymes，

    Or else by toasting her a score of times，

    Rose from the table and declared it right

    To test their fancy by their sight；

    But they mistook the brightness of the moon

    For the prosaic light of day—

    Music had driven their wits astray—

    And one was drowned in the great bog of Cloone.

    Strange， but the man who made the song was blind；

    Yet， now I have considered it， I find

    That nothing strange； the tragedy began

    With Homer that was a blind man，

    And Helen has all living hearts betrayed.

    O may the moon and sunlight seem

    One inextricable beam，

    For if I triumph I must make men mad.

    And I myself created Hanrahan

    And drove him drunk or sober through the dawn

    From somewhere in the neighbouring cottages.

    Caught by an old man‘s juggleries

    He stumbled， tumbled， fumbled to and fro

    And had but broken knees for hire

    And horrible splendour of desire；

    I thought it all out twenty years ago：

    Good fellows shuffled cards in an old bawn；

    And when that ancient ruffian‘s turn was on

    He so bewitched the cards under his thumb

    That all but the one card became

    A pack of hounds and not a pack of cards，

    And that he changed into a hare.

    Hanrahan rose in frenzy there

    And followed up those baying creatures towards—

    O towards I have forgotten what—enough！

    I must recall a man that neither love

    Nor music nor an enemy‘s clipped ear

    Could， he was so harried， cheer；

    A figure that has grown so fabulous

    There‘s not a neighbour left to say

    When he finished his dog‘s day：

    An ancient bankrupt master of this house.

    Before that ruin came， for centuries，

    Rough men-at-arms， cross-gartered to the knees

    Or shod in iron， climbed the narrow stairs，

    And certain men-at-arms there were

    Whose images， in the Great Memory stored，

    Come with loud cry and panting breast

    To break upon a sleeper‘s rest

    While their great wooden dice beat on the board.

    As I would question all， come all who can；

    Come old， necessitous， half-mounted man；

    And bring beauty‘s blind rambling celebrant；

    The red man the juggler sent

    Through God-forsaken meadows； Mrs. French，

    Gifted with so fine an ear；

    The man drowned in a bog‘s mire，

    When mocking muses chose the country wench.

    Did all old men and women， rich and poor，

    Who trod upon these rocks or passed this door，

    Whether in public or in secret rage

    As I do now against old age？

    But I have found an answer in those eyes

    That are impatient to be gone；

    Go therefore； but leave Hanrahan，

    For I need all his mighty memories.

    Old lecher with a love on every wind，

    Bring up out of that deep considering mind

    All that you have discovered in the grave，

    For it is certain that you have

    Reckoned up every unforeknown， unseeing

    Plunge， lured by a softening eye，

    Or by a touch or a sigh，

    Into the labyrinth of another‘s being；

    Does the imagination dwell the most

    Upon a woman won or woman lost？

    If on the lost， admit you turned aside

    From a great labyrinth out of pride，

    Cowardice， some silly over-subtle thought

    Or anything called conscience once；

    And that if memory recur， the sun‘s

    Under eclipse and the day blotted out.

    III

    It is time that I wrote my will；

    I choose upstanding men

    That climb the streams until

    The fountain leap， and at dawn

    Drop their cast at the side

    Of dripping stone； I declare

    They shall inherit my pride，

    The pride of people that were

    Bound neither to Cause nor to State，

    Neither to slaves that were spat on，

    Nor to the tyrants that spat，

    The people of Burke and of Grattan

    That gave， though free to refuse—

    Pride， like that of the morn，

    When the headlong light is loose，

    Or that of the fabulous horn，

    Or that of the sudden shower

    When all streams are dry，

    Or that of the hour

    When the swan must fix his eye

    Upon a fading gleam，

    Float out upon a long

    Last reach of glittering stream

    And there sing his last song.

    And I declare my faith：

    I mock Plotinus‘ thought

    And cry in Plato‘s