Happy St. Patrick's Day

Glencar Lake. Photo from here.

As I've done in the past, I'm celebrating the holiday on the blog by sharing a poem by my favourite Irish poet (my favourite poet really), W.B.Yeats. So Happy St. Patrick's Day and bain taitneamh as!

I Am of Ireland

'I AM of Ireland,

And the Holy Land of Ireland,

And time runs on,' cried she.

'Come out of charity,

Come dance with me in Ireland.'

One man, one man alone

In that outlandish gear,

One solitary man

Of all that rambled there

Had turned his stately head.

'That is a long way off,

And time runs on,' he said,

'And the night grows rough.'

'I am of Ireland,

And the Holy Land of Ireland,

And time runs on,' cried she.

“Come out of charity

And dance with me in Ireland.'

'The fiddlers are all thumbs,

Or the fiddle-string accursed,

The drums and the kettledrums

And the trumpets all are burst,

And the trombone,' cried he,

'The trumpet and trombone,'

And cocked a malicious eye,

'But time runs on, runs on.'

'I am of Ireland,

And the Holy Land of Ireland,

And time runs on,’ cried she.

'Come out of charity

And dance with me in Ireland.'

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Glencar Lake and Ben Bulben, County Sligo, Ireland. Photo from here.

Happy St. Patrick's Day! As I've done in the past, I'm going to celebrate today by sharing with you a poem by my favourite poet, W.B. Yeats. The Stolen Child is set in county Sligo, Ireland where Yeats spent his childhood and where I studied his poetry one summer many years ago. 

The Stolen Child

Where dips the rocky highland

Of Sleuth Wood in the lake, 

There lies a leafy island 

Where flapping herons wake 

The drowsy water rats; 

There we’ve hid our faery vats, 

Full of berrys 

And of reddest stolen cherries. 

Come away, O human child! 

To the waters and the wild 

With a faery, hand in hand, 

For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand. 

Where the wave of moonlight glosses 

The dim gray sands with light, 

Far off by furthest Rosses 

We foot it all the night, 

Weaving olden dances 

Mingling hands and mingling glances 

Till the moon has taken flight; 

To and fro we leap 

And chase the frothy bubbles, 

While the world is full of troubles 

And anxious in its sleep. 

Come away, O human child! 

To the waters and the wild 

With a faery, hand in hand, 

For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand. 

Where the wandering water gushes 

From the hills above Glen-Car, 

In pools among the rushes 

That scarce could bathe a star, 

We seek for slumbering trout 

And whispering in their ears 

Give them unquiet dreams; 

Leaning softly out 

From ferns that drop their tears 

Over the young streams. 

Come away, O human child! 

To the waters and the wild 

With a faery, hand in hand, 

For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand. 

Away with us he’s going, 

The solemn-eyed: 

He’ll hear no more the lowing 

Of the calves on the warm hillside 

Or the kettle on the hob 

Sing peace into his breast, 

Or see the brown mice bob 

Round and round the oatmeal chest. 

For he comes, the human child, 

To the waters and the wild 

With a faery, hand in hand, 

For the world’s more full of weeping than he can understand.

Happy St. Patrick's Day

Isle of Innisfree, Lough Gill. Photo from here.

Happy St. Patrick's Day everyone! Today my thoughts are not of leprechauns and green beer (the horror) but of W.B. Yeats, my favourite Irish poet (perhaps my favourite poet, period). Here's one of his many beautiful poems set in Sligo, an area of Ireland very close to my heart (I studied his poetry there one summer many years ago). Bain taitneamh as!

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core. —W.B. Yeats

Those Dancing Days Are Gone

Carla Bruni, the wife of French President Nicolas Sarkozy, has given birth to a baby girl. The news reminds me of how much I like Carla as a singer. I have two of her albums—Quelqu'un m'a dit and No Promises. Her breathy voice and jangly guitar playing work well to create some very good pop tunes. No Promises features poems by English-speaking poets set to music. Although two of Mrs. Parker's poems appear on the album my favourite is W.B. Yeats' "Those Dancing Days are Gone." It's both catchy and lovely. If you've never heard it, you should download it now. And how great is that album cover?

So congratulations Carla. I'm going to go listen to you now to celebrate.