them not.’ At another time, remembering
how his life had once a different shape, he will say,
’Many an hour I have spent in the strife of
the good and the evil, but now it is the pleasure of
my playmate of the empty days to draw my heart on
to him; and I know not why this sudden call to what
useless inconsequence.’ An innocence, a
simplicity that one does not find elsewhere in literature
makes the birds and the leaves seem as near to him
as they are near to children, and the changes of the
seasons great events as before our thoughts had arisen
between them and us. At times I wonder if he
has it from the literature of Bengal or from religion,
and at other times, remembering the birds alighting
on his brother’s hands, I find pleasure in thinking
it hereditary, a mystery that was growing through
the centuries like the courtesy of a Tristan or a
Pelanore. Indeed, when he is speaking of children,
so much a part of himself this quality seems, one
is not certain that he is not also speaking of the
saints, ’They build their houses with sand and
they play with empty shells. With withered leaves
they weave their boats and smilingly float them on
the vast deep. Children have their play on the
seashore of worlds. They know not how to swim,
they know not how to cast nets. Pearl fishers
dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while
children gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not
how to cast nets.’
W.B. Yeats September 1912
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure.
This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again,
and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over
hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies
eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart
loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance
ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small
hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest,
and still there is room to fill.
When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart
would break with pride; and I look to thy face, and
tears come to my eyes.
All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into
one sweet harmony—and my adoration spreads
wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea.
I know thou takest pleasure in my singing. I
know that only as a singer I come before thy presence.
I touch by the edge of the far-spreading wing of my
song thy feet which I could never aspire to reach.
Drunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and
call thee friend who art my lord.
I know not how thou singest, my master! I ever
listen in silent amazement.
The light of thy music illumines the world.
The life breath of thy music runs from sky to sky.
The holy stream of thy music breaks through all stony
obstacles and rushes on.
