One has just been sent out as a biblical dove, has found nothing green, and slips back
into the darkness of the ark -- Kafka

Thursday, June 2, 2011

Memorial Day Photos, Day #4: William Butler Yeats

Why Yeats? Why not? T.S. Eliot was probably the first poet I fell in love with (I've not been to his gravesite yet, but for his sake I did visit St.Magnus the Martyr in London), but Yeats--or should I say: some of Yeats--was probably second.

And when I visited Ireland (nearly 20 years ago) it makes sense that I beelined to Sligo (from there it's a short walk to Drumcliff) to see his grave.

From "Under Ben Bulben":

Under bare Ben Bulben's head
In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.
An ancestor was rector there
Long years ago, a church stands near,
By the road an ancient cross.

No marble, no conventional phrase;
On limestone quarried near the spot
By his command these words are cut:

Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by!

Ben Bulben

The ancient cross

The grave stone and epitaph

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