Perspectives on Ireland

W. B. Yeats Poem

'The Old Age of Queen Meave' (excerpt)

A certain poet in outlandish clothes
Gathered a crowd in some Byzantine lane,
Talked of his country and its people, sang
To some stringed instrument none there has seen,
A wall behind his back, over his head
A latticed window. His glance would go up at times
As though one listened there, and his voice sank
Or let its meaning mix into the strings.
Friend of these many years, you too have stood
With equal courage in that whirling rout;
For you, although you've not her wandering heart,
Have all the greatness, and not hers alone,
For there is no high story about queens
In any ancient book but tells of you;
And when I've herad how they grew old and died,
Or fell into unhappiness, I've said,
'She too will grow old and die, and she has wept!'
And when I'd write it out anew, the words,
Half crazy with the thought, She too has wept!

O unquiet heart

Outrun the measure

I'd tell of that great queen
Who stood amid a silence by the thorn
Until two lovers came out of the air
With bodies made out of soft fire. The one,
About whose face birds wagged their fiery wings,
Said, 'Aengus and his sweetheart give their thanks
To Maeve and Maeve's household, owing all
In owing them the bride-bed that gives peace.'
Then Maeve, 'O Aengus, Master of all lovers,
A thousand years ago you held high talk
With the first kings of many-pillared Cruachan.
O when will you grow weary?'
They had vanished;
But out of the dusk air over her head there came
A murmer of soft words and meeting lips.