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William Butler Yeats

(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939 / County Dublin / Ireland)

A Dialogue Of Self And Soul


i{My Soul} I summon to the winding ancient stair;
Set all your mind upon the steep ascent,
Upon the broken, crumbling battlement,
Upon the breathless starlit air,
'Upon the star that marks the hidden pole;
Fix every wandering thought upon
That quarter where all thought is done:
Who can distinguish darkness from the soul
i{My Self}. The consecretes blade upon my knees
Is Sato's ancient blade, still as it was,
Still razor-keen, still like a looking-glass
Unspotted by the centuries;
That flowering, silken, old embroidery, torn
From some court-lady's dress and round
The wodden scabbard bound and wound
Can, tattered, still protect, faded adorn
i{My Soul.} Why should the imagination of a man
Long past his prime remember things that are
Emblematical of love and war?
Think of ancestral night that can,
If but imagination scorn the earth
And interllect is wandering
To this and that and t'other thing,
Deliver from the crime of death and birth.
i{My self.} Montashigi, third of his family, fashioned it
Five hundred years ago, about it lie
Flowers from I know not what embroidery --
Heart's purple -- and all these I set
For emblems of the day against the tower
Emblematical of the night,
And claim as by a soldier's right
A charter to commit the crime once more.
i{My Soul.} Such fullness in that quarter overflows
And falls into the basin of the mind
That man is stricken deaf and dumb and blind,
For intellect no longer knows
i{Is} from the i{Ought,} or i{knower} from the i{Known -- }
That is to say, ascends to Heaven;
Only the dead can be forgiven;
But when I think of that my tongue's a stone.
i{My Self.} A living man is blind and drinks his drop.
What matter if the ditches are impure?
What matter if I live it all once more?
Endure that toil of growing up;
The ignominy of boyhood; the distress
Of boyhood changing into man;
The unfinished man and his pain
Brought face to face with his own clumsiness;
The finished man among his enemies? --
How in the name of Heaven can he escape
That defiling and disfigured shape
The mirror of malicious eyes
Casts upon his eyes until at last
He thinks that shape must be his shape?
And what's the good of an escape
If honour find him in the wintry blast?
I am content to live it all again
And yet again, if it be life to pitch
Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch,
A blind man battering blind men;
Or into that most fecund ditch of all,
The folly that man does
Or must suffer, if he woos
A proud woman not kindred of his soul.
I am content to follow to its source
Every event in action or in thought;
Measure the lot; forgive myself the lot!
When such as I cast out remorse
So great a sweetness flows into the breast
We must laugh and we must sing,
We are blest by everything,
Everything we look upon is blest.

Submitted: Tuesday, May 15, 2001

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  • Bronze Star - 6,820 Points * Sunprincess * (6/9/2014 7:23:00 AM)

    ........this write is so full of meaning....definitely needs to be read more than once....enjoyed... (Report) Reply

  • Rookie Gus Schreiber (4/26/2012 9:02:00 PM)

    If you're gonna be enough of a jackass to imply that your mind is already so enlightened that to open it any further is an extraordinary feat, at least learn how to use the word is properly. People like Amy are why arty people are justifiably despised. (Report) Reply

    Rookie Glenn Stumpp (7/27/2014 8:57:00 PM)

    You miss the point of the line in the poem and Amy seems to have grasped it.

  • Rookie Amy Grzyboski (4/14/2008 4:16:00 PM)

    This poem is opens my mind a little wider than it already is. I have to say that I have written some poetry while I was under the influence and have referred to myself as, 'Deaf, Dumb, and Blind'. I also ADORED the part where Yeats says.' I {Is} from the {Ought} or I {Knower} from the I {Known}'. That was masterfully written. It reminds me of saying, 'Should of Could of Would of'. I just wanted to express my appreciation for this work of art.
    Thanks (Report) Reply

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