Tuesday, May 31, 2016

"The Fisherman"

 I can see him still
The freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies,
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This Wise and Simple man.

All day I'd look in the face
What I'd hope 'twould be
To write for my Own Race
And the Reality;
The living men that I hate
The dead man that I Loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved.

And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer,
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch-cries of the clown, 
The beating down of the Wise
And great Art beaten down. 

Maybe a twelvemonth since
Suddenly I began.
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man.
And his sun-freckled face,
And grey Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to place
Where stone is dark under froth.

And the down turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the Stream:
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a Dream;
And cried, "Before I am olde
I shall have written him one
Poem maybe as cold
And Passionate as the Dawn.

W. B. Yeats
Dublin, Ireland 

31 May, 2016

~ Our Thoughts and Prayers are with those who have been affected, by the tornadoes and storms,
in Oklahoma, Texas, and other areas, of the country. ~ Our losses are great, yet our Resilience is Greater!
~ A"Special Thanks" to the First Responders, and the Volunteers, who have rallied together, at this time of Need. ~You are without Equal!
~ God Bless the U.S.A.!