This little book from St. Martin’s Press has a wonderful form factor and is from the series that included Browning’s “Sonnets from the Portuguese”. “A Poet to His Beloved” contains 41 selections from Yeats that concentrate on his early years and love poetry.
As Yeats had his share of heartbreak with love and rejection from Maud Gonne, a full spectrum is represented:
- The magical place that is true love in “The Indian to His Love”
- Adulation in “He Gives His Beloved Certain Rhymes” and “The Cap and Bells”
- The perceived uniqueness of a powerful love in “The Ragged Wood”, with its last line “No one has ever loved but you and I.”
- Impatience leading to ruin in “Down by the Sulley Gardens”
- The love that slipped away as illusory in “The Song of Wandering Aengus”
- Wanting another chance in “The Lover Tells of the Rose in His Heart”
- The acceptance of love lost in “Ephemera” and “Into the Twilight”
- Forgetting one’s troubles, brooding, and loneliness in “Who Goes With Fergus?”
- Never being able to forget in “The Lover Mourns for the Loss of Love”
- A plea to remembering fondly the one that loved you best in “When You Are Old”, and a promise to always find her beautiful despite aging in “The Lover Pleads with His Friend for Old Friends”.
This poetry is apparently thought to be less refined by critics, but for my part, the words rang true, brought emotion to the surface, and reminded me of the commonality of feelings in lovers from time immemorial – all signs of great art.
Favorites (other than “When You Are Old”, which I extracted elsewhere):
Who Goes With Fergus?
Who will go drive with Fergus now,
And pierce the deep wood’s woven shade,
And dance upon the level shore?
Young man, lift up your russet brow,
And lift your tender eyelids, maid,
And brood on hopes and fear no more.
And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love’s bitter mystery;
For Fergus rules the brazen cars,
And rules the shadows of the wood,
And the white breast of the dim sea
And all the dishevelled wandering stars.
He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.