W.B. Yeats (1865–1939). The Wild Swans at Coole. 1919.
35. The Phases of the Moon
Splashed, or an otter slid into the stream. We are on the bridge; that shadow is the tower, And the light proves that he is reading still. He has found, after the manner of his kind, Mere images; chosen this place to live in Because, it may be, of the candle light From the far tower where Milton’s platonist Sat late, or Shelley’s visionary prince: The lonely light that Samuel Palmer engraved, An image of mysterious wisdom won by toil; And now he seeks in book or manuscript What he shall never find. Who know it all ring at his door, and speak Just truth enough to show that his whole life Will scarcely find for him a broken crust Of all those truths that are your daily bread; And when you have spoken take the roads again? He had learnt from Pater, and to round his tale Said I was dead; and dead I chose to be. True song, though speech: ‘mine author sung it me.’ The full and the moon’s dark and all the crescents, Twenty-and-eight, and yet but six-and-twenty The cradles that a man must needs be rocked in: For there’s no human life at the full or the dark. From the first crescent to the half, the dream But summons to adventure and the man Is always happy like a bird or a beast; But while the moon is rounding towards the full He follows whatever whim’s most difficult Among whims not impossible, and though scarred As with the cat-o’-nine-tails of the mind, His body moulded from within his body Grows comelier. Eleven pass, and then Athenae takes Achilles by the hair, Hector is in the dust, Nietzsche is born, Because the heroes’ crescent is the twelfth. And yet, twice born, twice buried, grow he must, Before the full moon, helpless as a worm. The thirteenth moon but sets the soul at war In its own being, and when that war’s begun There is no muscle in the arm; and after Under the frenzy of the fourteenth moon The soul begins to tremble into stillness, To die into the labyrinth of itself. The strange reward of all that discipline. Becomes a body: that body and that soul Too perfect at the full to lie in a cradle, Too lonely for the traffic of the world: Body and soul cast out and cast away Beyond the visible world. End in a beautiful man’s or woman’s body. That those that we have loved got their long fingers From death, and wounds, or on Sinai’s top, Or from some bloody whip in their own hands. They ran from cradle to cradle till at last Their beauty dropped out of the loneliness Of body and soul. Is memory or foreknowledge of the hour When all is fed with light and heaven is bare. Are met on the waste hills by country men Who shudder and hurry by: body and soul Estranged amid the strangeness of themselves, Caught up in contemplation, the mind’s eye Fixed upon images that once were thought, For separate, perfect, and immovable Images can break the solitude Of lovely, satisfied, indifferent eyes. The soul remembering its loneliness Shudders in many cradles; all is changed, It would be the World’s servant, and as it serves, Choosing whatever task’s most difficult Among tasks not impossible, it takes Upon the body and upon the soul The coarseness of the drudge. It sought itself and afterwards the world. And never wrote a book your thought is clear. Reformer, merchant, statesman, learned man, Dutiful husband, honest wife by turn, Cradle upon cradle, and all in flight and all Deformed because there is no deformity But saves us from a dream. That the last servile crescent has set free? They are cast beyond the verge, and in a cloud, Crying to one another like the bats; And having no desire they cannot tell What’s good or bad, or what it is to triumph At the perfection of one’s own obedience; And yet they speak what’s blown into the mind; Deformed beyond deformity, unformed, Insipid as the dough before it is baked, They change their bodies at a word. That it can take what form cook Nature fancy The first thin crescent is wheeled round once more. The burning bow that once could shoot an arrow Out of the up and down, the wagon wheel Of beauty’s cruelty and wisdom’s chatter, Out of that raving tide is drawn betwixt Deformity of body and of mind. Stand under the rough roof-timbers of the hall Beside the castle door, where all is stark Austerity, a place set out for wisdom That he will never find; I’d play a part; He would never know me after all these years But take me for some drunken country man; I’d stand and mutter there until he caught ‘Hunchback and saint and fool,’ and that they came Under the three last crescents of the moon, And then I’d stagger out. He’d crack his wits Day after day, yet never find the meaning.Aherne What made that sound? Robartes A rat or water-hen Aherne Why should not you Robartes He wrote of me in that extravagant style Aherne Sing me the changes of the moon once more; Robartes Twenty-and-eight the phases of the moon, Aherne Sing out the song; sing to the end, and sing Robartes All thought becomes an image and the soul Aherne All dreams of the soul Robartes Have you not always known it? Aherne The song will have it Robartes The lovers’ heart knows that. Aherne It must be that the terror in their eyes Robartes When the moon’s full those creatures of the full And thereupon with aged, high-pitched voice Aherne laughed, thinking of the man within, His sleepless candle and laborious pen. Robartes And after that the crumbling of the moon. Aherne Before the full Robartes Because you are forgotten, half out of life, Aherne And what of those Robartes Because all dark, like those that are all light, Aherne And then? Robartes When all the dough has been so kneaded up Aherne But the escape; the song’s not finished yet. Robartes Hunchback and saint and fool are the last crescents. Aherne Were not our beds far off I’d ring the bell, And then he laughed to think that what seemed hard Should be so simple—a bat rose from the hazels And circled round him with its squeaky cry, The light in the tower window was put out.