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

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      Seanchan! Seanchan!

      Can you not hear me, Seanchan?

      It is myself.

      Is this your hand, Fedelm?

      I have been looking at another hand

      That is up yonder.

      I have come for you.

      Fedelm, I did not know that you were here.

      And can you not remember that I promised

      That I would come and take you home with me

      When I’d the harvest in? And now I’ve come,

      And you must come away, and come on the instant.

      Yes, I will come. But is the harvest in?

      This air has got a summer taste in it.

      But is not the wild middle of the summer

      A better time to marry? Come with me now!

      Who taught you that? For it’s a certainty,

      Although I never knew it till last night,

      That marriage, because it is the height of life,

      Can only be accomplished to the full

      In the high days of the year. I lay awake:

      There had come a frenzy into the light of the stars,

      And they were coming nearer, and I knew

      All in a minute they were about to marry

      Clods out upon the ploughlands, to beget

      A mightier race than any that has been.

      But some that are within there made a noise,

      And frighted them away.

      Come with me now!

      We have far to go, and daylight’s running out.

      The stars had come so near me that I caught

      Their singing. It was praise of that great race

      That would be haughty, mirthful, and white-bodied,

      With a high head, and open hand, and how,

      Laughing, it would take the mastery of the world.

      But you will tell me all about their songs

      When we’re at home. You have need of rest and care,

      And I can give them you when we’re at home.

      And therefore let us hurry, and get us home.

      It’s certain that there is some trouble here,

      Although it’s gone out of my memory.

      And I would get away from it. Give me your help. [Trying to rise.

      But why are not my pupils here to help me?

      Go, call my pupils, for I need their help.

      Come with me now, and I will send for them,

      For I have a great room that’s full of beds

      I can make ready; and there is a smooth lawn

      Where they can play at hurley and sing poems

      Under an apple-tree.

      I know that place:

      An apple-tree, and a smooth level lawn

      Where the young men can sway their hurley sticks.

      The four rivers that run there,

      Through well-mown level ground,

      Have come out of a blessed well

      That is all bound and wound

      By the great roots of an apple,

      And all the fowl of the air

      Have gathered in the wide branches

      And keep singing there.

      No, there are not four rivers, and those rhymes

      Praise Adam’s paradise.

      I can remember now,

      It’s out of a poem I made long ago

      About the Garden in the East of the World,

      And how spirits in the images of birds

      Crowd in the branches of old Adam’s crabtree.

      They come before me now, and dig in the fruit

      With so much gluttony, and are so drunk

      With that harsh wholesome savour, that their feathers

      Are clinging one to another with the juice.

      But you would lead me to some friendly place,

      And I would go there quickly.

      Come with me.

      But why am I so weak? Have I been ill?

      Sweetheart, why is it that I am so weak?

      I’ll dip this piece of bread into the wine,

      For that will make you stronger for the journey.

      Yes, give me bread and wine; that’s what I want,

      For it is hunger that is gnawing me.

      But, no; I must not eat it.

      Eat, Seanchan.

      For if you do not eat it you will die.

      Why did you give me food? Why did you come?

      For had I not enough to fight against

      Without your coming?

      Eat this little crust,

      Seanchan, if you have any love for me.

      I must not eat it – but that’s beyond your wit.

      Child! child! I must not eat it, though I die.

      You do not know what love is; for if you loved,

      You would put every other thought away.

      But you have never loved me.

      You, a child,

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