If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
The unpurged images of day recede; The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed; Night resonance recedes, night-walkers' song After great cathedral gong.
Interpretation
What this quote means
This quote reflects the transition from day to night and the fading of vivid memories into silence.
In this excerpt from his poem, Yeats captures the end of the day as lifeβs chaos gives way to nightβs calm. The imagery of unpurged images fading into darkness symbolizes how intense experiences can become distant and muted, and the reference to the Emperor's soldiers suggests a connection to both the beauty and turmoil of life, culminating in the stillness that comes with night. It evokes a sense of reflection and the passage of time, where memories wane and tranquility takes over.
Themes
In practice
Example use cases
This quote can be used during a poetry reading to illustrate the beauty of night.
More from William Butler Yeats
All quotes βIt was my first meeting with a philosophy that confirmed my vague speculations and seemed at once logical and boundless.
But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.
For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.
Love is created and preserved by intellectual analysis, for we love only that which is unique, and it belongs to contemplation, not to action, for we would not change that which we love.
Similar quotes
The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbed sense to steel it.
America is a poem in our eyes; its ample geography dazzles the imagination, and it will not wait long for metres.
Under your skin the moon is alive.
I saw the gooseflesh on my skin. I did not know what made it. I was not cold. Had a ghost passed over? No, it was the poetry.
My self-confidence can be measured out in teaspoons mixed into my poetry, and it still always tastes funny in my mouth.
Sitting over words _x000D_ Very late I have heard a kind of whispered sighing _x000D_ Not far _x000D_ Like a night wind in pines or like the sea in the dark _x000D_ The echo of everything that has ever _x000D_ Been spoken _x000D_ Still spinning its one syllable _x000D_ Between the earth and silence.