The Collected Works in Verse and Prose of William Butler Yeats, Vol. 8 (of 8): Discoveries. Edmund Spenser. Poetry and Tradition; and Other Essays. BibliographyYeats, W. B. (William Butler)
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The Collected Works in Verse and Prose of William Butler Yeats, Vol. 8 (of 8): Discoveries. Edmund Spenser. Poetry and Tradition; and Other Essays. Bibliography
Yeats, W. B. (William Butler)
English literature -- Irish authors
But even then I lacked something to compensate my imagination for
geographical and historical reality, for the testimony of our ordinary
senses, and found myself wishing for and trying to imagine, as I had
also when reading Keats’ _Endymion_, a crowd of believers who could
put into all those strange sights the strength of their belief and the
rare testimony of their visions. A little crowd had been sufficient,
and I would have had Shelley a sectary that his revelation might have
found the only sufficient evidence of religion, miracle. All symbolic
art should arise out of a real belief, and that it cannot do so in
this age proves that this age is a road and not a resting-place for
the imaginative arts. I can only understand others by myself, and I am
certain that there are many who are not moved as they desire to be by
that solitary light burning in the tower of Prince Athanais, because it
has not entered into men’s prayers nor lighted any through the sacred
dark of religious contemplation.
Lyrical poems even when they but speak of emotions common to all need,
if not a religious belief like the spiritual arts, a life that has
leisure for itself, and a society that is quickly stirred that our
emotion may be strengthened by the emotion of others. All circumstance
that makes emotion at once dignified and visible, increases the poet’s
power, and I think that is why I have always longed for some stringed
instrument and a listening audience not drawn out of the hurried
streets but from a life where it would be natural to murmur over again
the singer’s thought. When I heard Yvette Guilbert the other day, who
has the lyre or as good, I was not content, for she sang among people
whose life had nothing it could share with an exquisite art that should
rise out of life as the blade out of the spearshaft, a song out of the
mood, the fountain from its pool, all art out of the body, laughter
from a happy company. I longed to make all things over again, that she
might sing in some great hall, where there was no one that did not love
life and speak of it continually.
THE HOLY PLACES
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