NOTES

Cease mocking at me, Master,For I am certain that there is no GodNor immortality, and they that said itMade a fantastic tale from a starved dreamTo plague our hearts. Will that content you, Master?

Cease mocking at me, Master,

For I am certain that there is no God

Nor immortality, and they that said it

Made a fantastic tale from a starved dream

To plague our hearts. Will that content you, Master?

Wise Man

The giddy glass is emptier every moment,And you stand there, debating, laughing and wrangling.Out of my sight! Out of my sight, I say.

The giddy glass is emptier every moment,

And you stand there, debating, laughing and wrangling.

Out of my sight! Out of my sight, I say.

[He drives them out.

I'll call my wife, for what can women do,That carry us in the darkness of their bodies,But mock the reason that lets nothing growUnless it grow in light. Bridget, Bridget.A woman never ceases to believe,Say what we will. Bridget, come quickly, Bridget.

I'll call my wife, for what can women do,

That carry us in the darkness of their bodies,

But mock the reason that lets nothing grow

Unless it grow in light. Bridget, Bridget.

A woman never ceases to believe,

Say what we will. Bridget, come quickly, Bridget.

[Bridget comes in wearing her apron. Her sleeves turned up from her arms, which are covered with flour.

Wife, what do you believe in? Tell me the truth,And not—as is the habit with you all—Something you think will please me. Do you pray?Sometimes when you're alone in the house, do you pray?

Wife, what do you believe in? Tell me the truth,

And not—as is the habit with you all—

Something you think will please me. Do you pray?

Sometimes when you're alone in the house, do you pray?

Bridget

Prayers—no, you taught me to leave them off long ago. At first I was sorry, but I am glad now, for I am sleepy in the evenings.

Wise Man

Do you believe in God?

Bridget

Oh, a good wife only believes in what her husband tells her.

Wise Man

But sometimes, when the children are asleepAnd I am in the school, do you not thinkAbout the Martyrs and the saints and the angels,And all the things that you believed in once?

But sometimes, when the children are asleep

And I am in the school, do you not think

About the Martyrs and the saints and the angels,

And all the things that you believed in once?

Bridget

I think about nothing—sometimes I wonder if the linen is bleaching white, or I go out to see if the crows are picking up the chickens' food.

Wise Man

My God,—my God! I will go out myself.My pupils said that they would find a manWhose faith I never shook—they may have found him.Therefore I will go out—but if I go,The glass will let the sands run out unseen.I cannot go—I cannot leave the glass.Go call my pupils—I can explain all now,Only when all our hold on life is troubled,Only in spiritual terror can the TruthCome through the broken mind—as the pease burstOut of a broken pease-cod.

My God,—my God! I will go out myself.

My pupils said that they would find a man

Whose faith I never shook—they may have found him.

Therefore I will go out—but if I go,

The glass will let the sands run out unseen.

I cannot go—I cannot leave the glass.

Go call my pupils—I can explain all now,

Only when all our hold on life is troubled,

Only in spiritual terror can the Truth

Come through the broken mind—as the pease burst

Out of a broken pease-cod.

[He clutches Bridget as she is going.

Say to them,That Nature would lack all in her most need,Could not the soul find truth as in a flash,Upon the battle-field, or in the midstOf overwhelming waves, and say to them—But no, they would but answer as I bid.

Say to them,

That Nature would lack all in her most need,

Could not the soul find truth as in a flash,

Upon the battle-field, or in the midst

Of overwhelming waves, and say to them—

But no, they would but answer as I bid.

Bridget

You want somebody to get up an argument with.

Wise Man

Look out and see if there is any oneThere in the street—I cannot leave the glass,For somebody might shake it, and the sandIf it were shaken might run down on the instant.

Look out and see if there is any one

There in the street—I cannot leave the glass,

For somebody might shake it, and the sand

If it were shaken might run down on the instant.

Bridget

I don't understand a word you are saying. There's a crowd of people talking to your pupils.

Wise Man

Go out and find if they have found a manWho did not understand me when I taught,Or did not listen.

Go out and find if they have found a man

Who did not understand me when I taught,

Or did not listen.

Bridget

It is a hard thing to be married to a man of learning that must always be having arguments.

[She goes out.

Wise Man

Strange that I should be blind to the great secret,And that so simple a man might write it outUpon a blade of grass or bit of rushWith naught but berry juice, and laugh to himselfWriting it out, because it was so simple.

Strange that I should be blind to the great secret,

And that so simple a man might write it out

Upon a blade of grass or bit of rush

With naught but berry juice, and laugh to himself

Writing it out, because it was so simple.

[Enter Bridget followed by the Fool.

Fool

Give me something; give me a penny to buy bacon in the shops and nuts in the market, and strong drink for the time when the sun is weak.

Bridget

I have no pennies.(To Wise Man)Your pupils cannot find anybody to argue with you. There's nobody inthe whole country with belief enough for a lover's oath. Can't you be quiet now, and not always wanting to have arguments? It must be terrible to have a mind like that.

Wise Man

Then I am lost indeed.

Bridget

Leave me alone now, I have to make the bread for you and the children.

[She goes into kitchen.

Wise Man

Children, children!

Bridget

Your father wants you, run to him.

[Children run in.

Wise Man

Come to me, children. Do not be afraid.I want to know if you believe in Heaven,God or the soul—no, do not tell me yet;You need not be afraid I shall be angry,Say what you please—so that it is your thought—I wanted you to know before you spoke,That I shall not be angry.

Come to me, children. Do not be afraid.

I want to know if you believe in Heaven,

God or the soul—no, do not tell me yet;

You need not be afraid I shall be angry,

Say what you please—so that it is your thought—

I wanted you to know before you spoke,

That I shall not be angry.

First Child

We have not forgotten, Father.

Second Child

Oh no, Father.

Both Children

(As if repeating a lesson)There is nothing we cannot see, nothing we cannot touch.

First Child

Foolish people used to say that there was, but you have taught us better.

Wise Man

Go to your mother, go—yet do not go.What can she say? If I am dumb you are lost;And yet, because the sands are running out,I have but a moment to show it all in. Children,The sap would die out of the blades of grassHad they a doubt. They understand it all,Being the fingers of God's certainty,Yet can but make their sign into the air;But could they find their tongues they'd show it all;But what am I to say that am but one,When they are millions and they will not speak—

Go to your mother, go—yet do not go.

What can she say? If I am dumb you are lost;

And yet, because the sands are running out,

I have but a moment to show it all in. Children,

The sap would die out of the blades of grass

Had they a doubt. They understand it all,

Being the fingers of God's certainty,

Yet can but make their sign into the air;

But could they find their tongues they'd show it all;

But what am I to say that am but one,

When they are millions and they will not speak—

[Children have run out.

But they are gone; what made them run away?

[The Fool comes in with a dandelion.

Look at me, tell me if my face is changed,Is there a notch of the fiend's nail upon itAlready? Is it terrible to sight?Because the moment's near.

Look at me, tell me if my face is changed,

Is there a notch of the fiend's nail upon it

Already? Is it terrible to sight?

Because the moment's near.

[Going to glass.

I dare not look,I dare not know the moment when they come.No, no, I dare not. (Covers glass.)Will there be a footfall,Or will there be a sort of rending sound,Or else a cracking, as though an iron clawHad gripped the threshold stone?

I dare not look,

I dare not know the moment when they come.

No, no, I dare not. (Covers glass.)

Will there be a footfall,

Or will there be a sort of rending sound,

Or else a cracking, as though an iron claw

Had gripped the threshold stone?

[Fool has begun to blow the dandelion.

What are you doing?

Fool

Wait a minute—four—five—six—

Wise Man

What are you doing that for?

Fool

I am blowing the dandelion to find out what hour it is.

Wise Man

You have heard everything, and that is whyYou'd find what hour it is—you'd find that out,That you may look upon a fleet of devilsDragging my soul away. You shall not stop,I will have no one here when they come in,I will have no one sitting there—no one—And yet—and yet—there is something strange about you.I half remember something. What is it?Do you believe in God and in the soul?

You have heard everything, and that is why

You'd find what hour it is—you'd find that out,

That you may look upon a fleet of devils

Dragging my soul away. You shall not stop,

I will have no one here when they come in,

I will have no one sitting there—no one—

And yet—and yet—there is something strange about you.

I half remember something. What is it?

Do you believe in God and in the soul?

Fool

So you ask me now. I thought when you were asking your pupils, 'Will he ask Teigue the Fool? Yes, he will, he will; no, he will not—yes, he will.' But Teigue will say nothing. Teigue will say nothing.

Wise Man

Tell me quickly.

Fool

I said, 'Teigue knows everything, noteven the green-eyed cats and the hares that milk the cows have Teigue's wisdom'; but Teigue will not speak, he says nothing.

Wise Man

Speak, speak, for underneath the cover thereThe sand is running from the upper glass,And when the last grain's through, I shall be lost.

Speak, speak, for underneath the cover there

The sand is running from the upper glass,

And when the last grain's through, I shall be lost.

Fool

I will not speak. I will not tell you what is in my mind. I will not tell you what is in my bag. You might steal away my thoughts. I met a bodach on the road yesterday, and he said, 'Teigue, tell me how many pennies are in your bag; I will wager three pennies that there arenot twenty pennies in your bag; let me put in my hand and count them.' But I gripped the bag the tighter, and when I go to sleep at night I hide the bag where nobody knows.

Wise Man

There's but one pinch of sand, and I am lostIf you are not he I seek.

There's but one pinch of sand, and I am lost

If you are not he I seek.

Fool

O, what a lot the Fool knows, but he says nothing.

Wise Man

Yes, I remember now. You spoke of angels.You said but now that you had seen an angel.You are the one I seek, and I am saved.

Yes, I remember now. You spoke of angels.

You said but now that you had seen an angel.

You are the one I seek, and I am saved.

Fool

Oh no. How could poor Teigue see angels? Oh, Teigue tells one tale here, another there, and everybody gives him pennies. If Teigue had not his tales he would starve.

[He breaks away and goes out.

Wise Man

The last hope is gone,And now that it's too late I see it all,We perish into God and sink awayInto reality—the rest's a dream.

The last hope is gone,

And now that it's too late I see it all,

We perish into God and sink away

Into reality—the rest's a dream.

[The Fool comes back.

Fool

There was one there—there by the threshold stone, waiting there; and he said, 'Go in, Teigue, and tell him everything that he asks you. He will give you a penny if you tell him.'

Wise Man

I know enough, that know God's will prevails.

Fool

Waiting till the moment had come—That is what the one out there was saying, but I might tell you what you asked. That is what he was saying.

Wise Man

Be silent. May God's will prevail on the instant,Although His will be my eternal pain.I have no question:It is enough, I know what fixed the stationOf star and cloud.And knowing all, I cryThat what so God has willedOn the instant be fulfilled,Though that be my damnation.The stream of the world has changed its course,And with the stream my thoughts have runInto some cloudy thunderous springThat is its mountain source—Aye, to some frenzy of the mind,For all that we have done's undone,Our speculation but as the wind.

Be silent. May God's will prevail on the instant,

Although His will be my eternal pain.

I have no question:

It is enough, I know what fixed the station

Of star and cloud.

And knowing all, I cry

That what so God has willed

On the instant be fulfilled,

Though that be my damnation.

The stream of the world has changed its course,

And with the stream my thoughts have run

Into some cloudy thunderous spring

That is its mountain source—

Aye, to some frenzy of the mind,

For all that we have done's undone,

Our speculation but as the wind.

[He dies.

Fool

Wise man—Wise man, wake up and I will tell you everything for a penny. It is I, poor Teigue the Fool. Why don't you wake up, and say, 'There is a penny for you, Teigue'? No, no, you will say nothing. You and I, we are the two fools, we know everything, but we will not speak.

[Angel enters holding a casket.

O, look what has come from his mouth! O, look what has come from his mouth—the white butterfly! Heis dead, and I have taken his soul in my hands; but I know why you open the lid of that golden box. I must give it to you. There then, (he puts butterfly in casket) he has gone through his pains, and you will open the lid in the Garden of Paradise. (He closes curtain and remains outside it.) He is gone, he is gone, he is gone, but come in, everybody in the world, and look at me.

'I hear the wind a blowI hear the grass a grow,And all that I know, I know.'But I will not speak, I will run away.

'I hear the wind a blow

I hear the grass a grow,

And all that I know, I know.'

But I will not speak, I will run away.

[He goes out.

NOTES

Prefatory Poem

'Free of the ten and four' is an error I cannot now correct, without more rewriting than I have a mind for. Some merchant in Villon, I forget the reference, was 'free of the ten and four.' Irish merchants exempted from certain duties by the Irish Parliament were, unless memory deceives me again for I am writing away from books, 'free of the eight and six.'

Poems beginning with that 'To a Wealthy Man' and ending with that 'To a Shade'

During the thirty years or so during which I have been reading Irish newspapers, three public controversies have stirred my imagination. The first was the Parnell controversy. There were reasons to justify a man's joining either party, but there were none to justify, on one side or on the other, lying accusations forgetful of past service, a frenzy of detraction. And another was the dispute over 'The Playboy.' There were reasons for opposing as for supporting that violent, laughing thing,but none for the lies, for the unscrupulous rhetoric spread against it in Ireland, and from Ireland to America. The third prepared for the Corporation's refusal of a building for Sir Hugh Lane's famous collection of pictures.

One could respect the argument that Dublin, with much poverty and many slums, could not afford the £22,000 the building was to cost the city, but not the minds that used it. One frenzied man compared the pictures to Troy horse which 'destroyed a city,' and innumerable correspondents described Sir Hugh Lane and those who had subscribed many thousands to give Dublin paintings by Corot, Manet, Monet, Degas, and Renoir, as 'self-seekers,' 'self-advertisers,' 'picture-dealers,' 'log-rolling cranks and faddists,' and one clerical paper told 'picture-dealer Lane' to take himself and his pictures out of that. A member of the Corporation said there were Irish artists who could paint as good if they had a mind to, and another described a half-hour in the temporary gallery in Harcourt Street as the most dismal of his life. Some one else asked instead of these eccentric pictures to be given pictures 'like those beautiful productions displayed in the windows of our city picture shops.' Another thought that we would all be more patriotic if wedevoted our energy to fighting the Insurance Act. Another would not hang them in his kitchen, while yet another described the vogue of French impressionist painting as having gone to such a length among 'log-rolling enthusiasts' that they even admired 'works that were rejected from the Salon forty years ago by the finest critics in the world.'

The first serious opposition began in theIrish Catholic, the chief Dublin clerical paper, and Mr. William Murphy, the organiser of the recent lock-out and Mr. Healy's financial supporter in his attack upon Parnell, a man of great influence, brought to its support a few days later his newspapersThe Evening HeraldandThe Irish Independent, the most popular of Irish daily papers. He replied to my poem 'To a Wealthy Man' (I was thinking of a very different wealthy man) from what he described as 'Paudeen's point of view,' and 'Paudeen's point of view' it was. The enthusiasm for 'Sir Hugh Lane's Corots'—one paper spelled the name repeatedly 'Crot'—being but 'an exotic fashion,' waited 'some satirist like Gilbert' who 'killed the æsthetic craze,' and as for the rest 'there were no greater humbugs in the world than art critics and so-called experts.' As the first avowed reason for opposition, the necessities of the poor gotbut a few lines, not so many certainly as the objection of various persons to supply Sir Hugh Lane with 'a monument at the city's expense,' and as the gallery was supported by Mr. James Larkin, the chief Labour leader, and important slum workers, I assume that the purpose of the opposition was not exclusively charitable.

These controversies, political, literary, and artistic, have showed that neither religion nor politics can of itself create minds with enough receptivity to become wise, or just and generous enough to make a nation. Other cities have been as stupid—Samuel Butler laughs at shocked Montreal for hiding the Discobolus in a cellar—but Dublin is the capital of a nation, and an ancient race has nowhere else to look for an education. Goethe inWilhelm Meisterdescribes a saintly and naturally gracious woman, who getting into a quarrel over some trumpery detail of religious observance, grows—she and all her little religious community—angry and vindictive. In Ireland I am constantly reminded of that fable of the futility of all discipline that is not of the whole being. Religious Ireland—and the pious Protestants of my childhood were signal examples—thinks of divine things as a round of duties separated from life and not as anelement that may be discovered in all circumstance and emotion, while political Ireland sees the good citizen but as a man who holds to certain opinions and not as a man of good will. Against all this we have but a few educated men and the remnants of an old traditional culture among the poor. Both were stronger forty years ago, before the rise of our new middle class which showed as its first public event, during the nine years of the Parnellite split, how base at moments of excitement are minds without culture. 1914.

'Romantic Ireland's dead and gone' sounds old-fashioned now. It seemed true in 1913, but I did not foresee 1916. The late Dublin Rebellion, whatever one can say of its wisdom, will long be remembered for its heroism. 'They weighed so lightly what they gave,' and gave too in some cases without hope of success. July 1916.

The Dolls

The fable for this poem came into my head while I was giving some lectures in Dublin. I had noticed once again how all thought among us is frozen into 'something other than human life.' After I had made the poem, I looked up one day into the blue of the sky, and suddenly imagined, as if lost in the blue of the sky, stifffigures in procession. I remembered that they were the habitual image suggested by blue sky, and looking for a second fable called them 'The Magi', complimentary forms to those enraged dolls.

The Hour-Glass

A friend suggested to me the subject of this play, an Irish folk-tale from Lady Wilde'sAncient Legends. I have for years struggled with something which is charming in the naive legend but a platitude on the stage. I did not discover till a year ago that if the wise man humbled himself to the fool and received salvation as his reward, so much more powerful are pictures than words, no explanatory dialogue could set the matter right. I was faintly pleased when I converted a music-hall singer and kept him going to Mass for six weeks, so little responsibility does one feel for those to whom one has never been introduced; but I was always ashamed when I saw any friend of my own in the theatre. Now I have made my philosopher accept God's will, whatever it is, and find his courage again, and helped by the elaboration of verse, have so changed the fable that it is not false to my own thoughts of the world.

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BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATSReveries Over Childhood and Youth$2.00In this book the celebrated Irish author gives us his reminiscences of his childhood and youth. The memories are written, as is to be expected, in charming prose. They have the appeal invariably attached to the account of a sensitive childhood.The Hour Glass and Other Plays$1.25"The Hour Glass" is one of Mr. Yeats' noble and effective plays, and with the other plays in the volume, make a small, but none the less representative collection.Stories of Red Hanrahan$1.25These tales belong to the realm of pure lyrical expression. They are mysterious and shadowy, full of infinite subtleties and old wisdom of folklore, and sad with the gray wistful Celtic sadness."Lovers of Mr. Yeats's suggestive and delicate writing will find him at his best in this volume."—Springfield Republican.Ideas of Good and Evil$1.50Essays on art and life, wherein are set forth much of Yeats' philosophy, his love of beauty, his hope for Ireland and for Irish artistic achievement.The Celtic Twilight$1.50A collection of tales from Irish life and of Irish fancy, retold from peasants' stories with no additions except an occasional comment.THE MACMILLAN COMPANYPublishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York

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Decorated cloth, 12mo, $1.25

The initial piece in this volume is a deliciously conceived heroic farce, quaint in humor and sprightly in action. It tells of the difficulty in which two simple Irish folk find themselves when they enter into an agreement with an apparition of the sea, who demands that they knock off his head and who maintains that after they have done that he will knock off theirs. There is a real meaning in the play which it will not take the thoughtful reader long to discover. Besides this there are a number of shorter poems, notably one in which Mr. Yeats answers the critics of "The Playboy of the Western World."

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The QuestByJOHN G. NEIHARDTAuthor of "The Song of Hugh Glass"Here are brought together the more important of Mr. Neihardt's poems. For some years there have been those—and prominent critics, too—who have quite emphatically maintained that there is no greater American poet than Mr. Neihardt, that in him are found those essentials which make for true art—a feeling for words, a lyric power of the first quality, an understanding of rhythm. Here, for example, is the comment of theBoston Transcripton the book just preceding this,The Song of Hugh Glass:"In this poem Mr. Neihardt touches life, power, beauty, spirit; the tremendous and impressive forces of nature.... The genius of American poetry is finding itself in such a poem as this.... The poem is powerfully poetic.... It is a big, sweeping thing blazing a pathway across the frontiers of our national life."CaliforniansByROBINSON JEFFERSCalifornia is now to have its part in the poetry revival. Robinson Jeffers is a new poet, a man whose name is as yet unknown but whose work is of such outstanding character that once it is read he is sure of acceptance by those who have admired the writings of such men as John G. Neihardt, Edgar Lee Masters, Edwin Arlington Robinson and Thomas Walsh. Virtually all of the poems in this first collection have their setting in California, most of them in the Monterey peninsula, and they realize the scenery of the great State with vividness and richness of detail. The author's main source of inspiration has been the varying aspects of nature.THE MACMILLAN COMPANYPublishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York

The Quest

ByJOHN G. NEIHARDT

Author of "The Song of Hugh Glass"

Here are brought together the more important of Mr. Neihardt's poems. For some years there have been those—and prominent critics, too—who have quite emphatically maintained that there is no greater American poet than Mr. Neihardt, that in him are found those essentials which make for true art—a feeling for words, a lyric power of the first quality, an understanding of rhythm. Here, for example, is the comment of theBoston Transcripton the book just preceding this,The Song of Hugh Glass:"In this poem Mr. Neihardt touches life, power, beauty, spirit; the tremendous and impressive forces of nature.... The genius of American poetry is finding itself in such a poem as this.... The poem is powerfully poetic.... It is a big, sweeping thing blazing a pathway across the frontiers of our national life."

Californians

ByROBINSON JEFFERS

California is now to have its part in the poetry revival. Robinson Jeffers is a new poet, a man whose name is as yet unknown but whose work is of such outstanding character that once it is read he is sure of acceptance by those who have admired the writings of such men as John G. Neihardt, Edgar Lee Masters, Edwin Arlington Robinson and Thomas Walsh. Virtually all of the poems in this first collection have their setting in California, most of them in the Monterey peninsula, and they realize the scenery of the great State with vividness and richness of detail. The author's main source of inspiration has been the varying aspects of nature.

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Poems of the Great WarByJ. W. CUNLIFFEHere are brought together under the editorship of Dr. Cunliffe some of the more notable poems which have dealt with the great war. Among the writers represented are Rupert Brooke, John Masefield, Lincoln Colcord, William Benet, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, Hermann Hagedorn, Alfred Noyes, Rabindranath Tagore, Walter De La Mare, Vachel Lindsay and Owen Seaman.The New Poetry: An AnthologyEdited by HARRIET MONROE and ALICECORBIN HENDERSON, Editors ofPoetryProbably few people are following as closely the poetry of to-day as are the editors of thePoetry Magazineof Chicago. They are eminently fitted, therefore, to prepare such a volume as this, which is intended to represent the work that is being done by the leading poets of the land. Here, between the covers of one book, are brought together poems by a great many different writers, all of whom may be said to be responsible in a measure for the revival of interest in poetry in this country.The Story of EleusisByLOUIS V. LEDOUXThis is a lyrical drama, in the Greek manner, dealing with the story of Persephone. Mr. Ledoux has constructed such a play as might well have held the attention of the assembled mystæ at Eleusis. It is Greek. Better than this, it is also human. Its beauty and its truthfulness to life will appeal alike to the lover of classical and the lover of modern dramatic poetry.THE MACMILLAN COMPANYPublishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York

Poems of the Great War

ByJ. W. CUNLIFFE

Here are brought together under the editorship of Dr. Cunliffe some of the more notable poems which have dealt with the great war. Among the writers represented are Rupert Brooke, John Masefield, Lincoln Colcord, William Benet, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, Hermann Hagedorn, Alfred Noyes, Rabindranath Tagore, Walter De La Mare, Vachel Lindsay and Owen Seaman.

The New Poetry: An Anthology

Edited by HARRIET MONROE and ALICECORBIN HENDERSON, Editors ofPoetry

Probably few people are following as closely the poetry of to-day as are the editors of thePoetry Magazineof Chicago. They are eminently fitted, therefore, to prepare such a volume as this, which is intended to represent the work that is being done by the leading poets of the land. Here, between the covers of one book, are brought together poems by a great many different writers, all of whom may be said to be responsible in a measure for the revival of interest in poetry in this country.

The Story of Eleusis

ByLOUIS V. LEDOUX

This is a lyrical drama, in the Greek manner, dealing with the story of Persephone. Mr. Ledoux has constructed such a play as might well have held the attention of the assembled mystæ at Eleusis. It is Greek. Better than this, it is also human. Its beauty and its truthfulness to life will appeal alike to the lover of classical and the lover of modern dramatic poetry.

THE MACMILLAN COMPANYPublishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York

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