The Collected Works in Verse and Prose of William Butler Yeats. Volume 2 of 8. William Butler Yeats

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      If you are a poet,

      Cry out that the King’s money would not buy,

      Nor the high circle consecrate his head,

      If poets had never christened gold, and even

      The moon’s poor daughter, that most whey-faced metal,

      Precious; and cry out that none alive

      Would ride among the arrows with high heart,

      Or scatter with an open hand, had not

      Our heady craft commended wasteful virtues.

      And when that story’s finished, shake your coat

      Where little jewels gleam on it, and say,

      A herdsman, sitting where the pigs had trampled,

      Made up a song about enchanted kings,

      Who were so finely dressed, one fancied them

      All fiery, and women by the churn

      And children by the hearth caught up the song

      And murmured it, until the tailors heard it.

      If you would but eat something you’d find out

      That you have had these thoughts from lack of food,

      For hunger makes us feverish.

      Cry aloud,

      That when we are driven out we come again

      Like a great wind that runs out of the waste

      To blow the tables flat; and thereupon

      Lie down upon the threshold till the King

      Restore to us the ancient right of the poets.

      You cannot shake him. I will to the King,

      And offer him consolation in his trouble,

      For that man there has set his teeth to die.

      And being one that hates obedience,

      Discipline, and orderliness of life,

      I cannot mourn him.

      ’Twas you that stirred it up.

      You stirred it up that you might spoil our dancing.

      Why shouldn’t we have dancing? We’re not in Lent.

      Yet nobody will pipe or play to us;

      And they will never do it if he die.

      And that is why you are going.

      What folly’s this?

      Well, if you did not do it, speak to him —

      Use your authority; make him obey you.

      What harm is there in dancing?

      Hush! begone!

      Go to the fields and watch the hurley players,

      Or any other place you have a mind to.

      This is not woman’s work.

      Come! let’s away!

      We can do nothing here.

      The pride of the poets!

      Dancing, hurling, the country full of noise,

      And King and Church neglected. Seanchan,

      I’ll take my leave, for you are perishing

      Like all that let the wanton imagination

      Carry them where it will, and it’s not likely

      I’ll look upon your living face again.

      Come nearer, nearer!

      Have you some last wish?

      Stoop down, for I would whisper it in your ear.

      Has that wild God of yours, that was so wild

      When you’d but lately taken the King’s pay,

      Grown any tamer? He gave you all much trouble.

      Let go my habit!

      Have you persuaded him

      To chirp between two dishes when the King

      Sits down to table?

      Let go my habit, sir!

      And maybe he has learnt to sing quite softly

      Because loud singing would disturb the King,

      Who is sitting drowsily among his friends

      After the table has been cleared. Not yet!

      You did not think that hands so full of hunger

      Could hold you tightly. They are not civil yet.

      I’d know if you have taught him to eat bread

      From the King’s hand, and perch upon his finger.

      I think he perches on the King’s strong hand.

      But it may be that he is still too wild.

      You must not weary in your work; a king

      Is often weary, and he needs a God

      To be a comfort to him.

      A little God,

      With comfortable feathers, and bright eyes.

      There will be no more dancing in our time,

      For nobody will play the harp or the fiddle.

      Let us away, for we cannot amend it,

      And watch the hurley.

      Hush! he is looking at us.

      Yes, yes, go to the hurley, go to the hurley,

      Go to the hurley! Gather up your skirts —

      Run quickly! You can remember many love songs;

      I know it by the light that’s in your eyes —

      But you’ll forget them. You’re fair to look upon.

      Your feet delight in dancing, and your mouths

      In the slow smiling that awakens love.

      The mothers that have borne you mated rightly.

      They’d little ears as thirsty as your ears

      For many love songs. Go to the young men.

      Are not the ruddy flesh and the thin flanks

      And the broad shoulders worthy of desire?

      Go from me! Here is nothing for your eyes.

      But it is I that am singing you away —

      Singing you to the young men.