W.B. Yeats (1865–1939). The Wild Swans at Coole. 1919.
33. Ego Dominus Tuus
Under your old wind-beaten tower, where still
A lamp burns on beside the open book
That Michael Robartes left, you walk in the moon
And though you have passed the best of life still trace
Enthralled by the unconquerable delusion
Magical shapes.
I call to my own opposite, summon all That I have handled least, least looked upon. We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush We are but critics, or but half create, Timid, entangled, empty and abashed Lacking the countenance of our friends. The chief imagination of Christendom Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself That he has made that hollow face of his More plain to the mind’s eye than any face But that of Christ. Or was the hunger that had made it hollow A hunger for the apple on the bough Most out of reach? and is that spectral image The man that Lapo and that Guido knew? I think he fashioned from his opposite An image that might have been a stony face, Staring upon a bedouin’s horse-hair roof From doored and windowed cliff, or half upturned Among the coarse grass and the camel dung. He set his chisel to the hardest stone. Being mocked by Guido for his lecherous life, Derided and deriding, driven out To climb that stair and eat that bitter bread, He found the unpersuadable justice, he found The most exalted lady loved by a man. Out of no tragic war, lovers of life, Impulsive men that look for happiness And sing when they have found it. For those that love the world serve it in action, Grow rich, popular and full of influence, And should they paint or write still it is action: The struggle of the fly in marmalade. The rhetorician would deceive his neighbours, The sentimentalist himself; while art Is but a vision of reality. What portion in the world can the artist have Who has awakened from the common dream But dissipation and despair? No one denies to Keats love of the world; Remember his deliberate happiness. I see a schoolboy when I think of him, With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window, For certainly he sank into his grave His senses and his heart unsatisfied, And made—being poor, ailing and ignorant, Shut out from all the luxury of the world, The coarse-bred son of a livery stablekeeper— Luxuriant song. Burning alone beside an open book And trace these characters upon the sands; A style is found by sedentary toil And by the imitation of great masters. Those men that in their writings are most wise Own nothing but their blind, stupefied hearts. I call to the mysterious one who yet Shall walk the wet sands by the edge of the stream And look most like me, being indeed my double, And prove of all imaginable things The most unlike, being my anti-self, And standing by these characters disclose All that I seek; and whisper it as though He were afraid the birds, who cry aloud Their momentary cries before it is dawn, Would carry it away to blasphemous men.Ille. By the help of an image Hic. And I would find myself and not an image. Ille. That is our modern hope and by its light Hic. And yet Ille. And did he find himself, Hic. Yet surely there are men who have made their art Ille. No, not sing, Hic. And yet Ille. His art is happy but who knows his mind? Hic. Why should you leave the lamp Ille. Because I seek an image, not a book.