I mean, bedside nurses aren't as easy to get as you might think. Especially with patients so very…" "Famous? At any rate, what I wanted to say is that food shipments finally came in from the ministry.
I went there from a neighbouring country-house, and, arriving a little before the players, tried to open a window.
My hands were black with dirt in Memories for companionship in when you are old by william butler yeats moment, and presently a pane of glass and a part of the window-frame came out in my hands. It had been built by some romantic or philanthropic landlord some three or four generations ago, and was a memory of we knew not what unfinished scheme.
He lived in a high house with other priests, and as I went in I noticed with a whimsical pleasure a broken pane of glass in the fanlight over the door, for he had once told me the story of an old woman who a good many years ago quarrelled with the bishop, got drunk and hurled a stone through the painted glass.
He was a clever man who read Meredith and Ibsen, but some of his books had been packed in the fire-grate by his housekeeper, instead of the customary view of an Italian lake or the coloured tissue-paper. The players, who had been giving a performance in a neighbouring town, had not yet come, or were unpacking their costumes and properties at the hotel he had recommended them.
We should have time, he said, to go through the half-ruined town and to visit the convent schools and the cathedral, where, owing to his influence, two of our young Irish sculptors had been set to carve an altar and the heads of pillars.
The new movement had seized on the cathedral midway in its growth, and the worst of the old and the best of the new were side by side without any sign of transition. The convent school was, as other like places have been to me—a long room in a workhouse hospital at Portumna, in particular—a delight to the imagination and the eyes.
A new floor had been put into some ecclesiastical building and the light from a great mullioned window, cut off at the middle, fell aslant upon rows of clean and seemingly happy children.
The nuns, who show in their own convents, where they can put what they like, a love of what is mean and pretty, make beautiful rooms where the regulations compel them to do all with a few colours and a few flowers.
A good many of our audience, when the curtain went up in the old ball-room, were drunk, but all were attentive, for they had a great deal of respect for my friend, and there were other priests there.
Presently the man at  the door opposite to the stage strayed off somewhere and I took his place, and when boys came up offering two or three pence and asking to be let into the sixpenny seats, I let them join the melancholy crowd. The play professed to tell of the heroic life of ancient Ireland, but was really full of sedentary refinement and the spirituality of cities.
Every emotion was made as dainty-footed and dainty-fingered as might be, and a love and pathos where passion had faded into sentiment, emotions of pensive and harmless people, drove shadowy young men through the shadows of death and battle. I watched it with growing rage.
It was not my own work, but I have sometimes watched my own work with a rage made all the more salt in the mouth from being half despair. Why should we make so much noise about ourselves and yet have nothing to say that was not better said in that workhouse dormitory, where a few flowers and a few coloured counterpanes and the coloured walls had made a severe and gracious beauty?
Presently the play was changed and our comedian began to act a little farce, and when I saw him struggle to wake into laughter an audience, out of whom the life had run as if it were water, I rejoiced, as I had over that broken window-pane.
Here was  something secular, abounding, even a little vulgar, for he was gagging horribly, condescending to his audience, though not without contempt. I had my breakfast by myself the next morning, for the players had got up in the middle of the night and driven some ten miles to catch an early train to Dublin, and were already on their way to their shops and offices.
Nobody had thought it worth his while to tear out the page  or block out the lines, and as I put the book away impressions that had been drifting through my mind for months rushed up into a single thought.
The English have driven away the kings, and turned the prophets into demagogues, and you cannot have health among a people if you have not prophet, priest and king. In England, where there have been so many changing activities and so much systematic  education, one only escapes from crudities and temporary interests among students, but here there is the right audience could one but get its ears.
I have always come to this certainty: They have not much to do with the speculations of science, though they have a little, or with the speculations of metaphysics, though they have a little. Their legs will tire on the road if there is nothing in their hearts but vague sentiment, and though it is charming to have an affectionate feeling about flowers, that will not pull the cart out of the ditch.
An exciting person, whether the hero of a play or the maker of poems, will display the greatest volume of personal energy, and this energy must seem to come out of the body as out of the mind.
We must say to ourselves continually  when we imagine a character: I even doubt if any play had ever a great popularity that did not use, or seem to use, the bodily energies of its principal actor to the full.
Villon the robber could have delighted these Irishmen with plays and songs, if he and they had been born to the same traditions of word and symbol, but Shelley could not; and as men came to live in towns and to read printed books and to have many specialised activities, it has become more possible to produce Shelleys and less and less possible to produce Villons.
The last Villon dwindled into Robert Burns because the highest faculties had faded, taking the sense of beauty with them, into some sort of vague heaven and left the lower to lumber where they best could. In literature, partly from the lack of that spoken word which knits us to normal man, we have lost in personality, in our delight in the whole man—blood, imagination, intellect, running together—but have found a new delight, in essences, in states of mind, in pure imagination, in all that comes to us most easily in elaborate music.
If the carts have hit our fancy we must have the soul tight within our bodies, for it has grown so fond of a beauty accumulated by subtle generations that it will for a long time be impatient with our thirst for mere force, mere personality, for the tumult of the blood.
You will side with the one or the other according to the nature of your energy, and I in my present mood am all for the man who, with an average audience before him, uses all means of persuasion—stories, laughter, tears, and but so much music as he can discover on the wings of words.
I would even avoid the conversation of the lovers of music, who would draw us into the impersonal land of sound and colour, and would have no one write with a sonata in his memory. We may even speak a little evil of musicians, having admitted that they will see before we do that melodious crown.
We may remind them that the housemaid does not respect the piano-tuner as she does the plumber, and of the enmity that they have aroused among all poets.
Music is the most impersonal of things  and words the most personal, and that is why musicians do not like words.Okay, way back in a post about a William Henry Davies’ poem, I did mention that I have no breasts, but I tend to wear my “survivor” status like I wear my underwear–hidden from view unless you are my husband or doctor, but always there, close to the skin, a foundation, necessary to me if undesirable.
When You Are Old Summary. This is a poem that many see as highlighting the unrequited love between the speaker, presumably Yeats, and his former lover. The speaker, talking directly to his muse, instructs her to open the book in .
Famous Friendship poems written by famous poets. Examples of famous Friendship poetry from the past and present. Read famous Friendship poems considered to be modern and old classics. by Yeats, William Butler Epilogue to "A Vision' MIDNIGHT has come, and the great Christ Church Bell And may a lesser bell sound through the room; And it is.
When You are Old, by William Butler Yeats, represents and elderly woman reminiscing of her younger days. A past lover whispers to her as she looks through a photo album.
She will always have her memories for companionship. 'When you are old and grey and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire' (l) depicts the woman in her age, needing to.
If you're old and happy, I can imagine that you'll smile to yourself when you hear me going, he broke my heart. You'll remember someone who broke your heart, and you'll think to yourself, Oh yes, i . However, in , William Butler Yeats, an Irish poet, founded the Irish Literary Society.
Along with his friend, Lady Augusta Gregory, Yeats helped to inspire a movement in Irish literature. In his own poetry and prose writings, Yeats helped to resurrect old Celtic myths and present them to the world again.