If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
William Butler YeatsRead
Was it for this the wild geese spread The gray wing upon every tide; For this that all that blood was shed, For this. Edward Fitzgerald died, And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone, All that delirium of the brave? Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Interpretation
The quote reflects on the sacrifices made for Ireland and mourns its lost romantic ideals.
This quote expresses deep sorrow for the sacrifices made by those who fought for Irish freedom, questioning if all that bloodshed was worthwhile in the face of what he sees as the death of the romantic vision of Ireland. Yeats laments that the heroic spirit that inspired such sacrifices has faded, now resting in the grave alongside its champions, suggesting a loss of hope and idealism in contemporary Ireland.
In practice
Using this quote during a speech about national identity and the sacrifices made for freedom.
If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
It 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.
The blacklist was a time of evil...no one on either side who survived it came through untouched by evil...[Looking] back on this time...it will do no good to search for villains or heroes or saints or devils because there were none; there were only victims.
Fame is like a river, that beareth up things light and swollen, and drowns things weighty and solid.
The society based on production is only productive, not creative.
A purpose, an intention, a design, strikes everywhere even the careless, the most stupid thinker.
But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, taste and smell alone, more fragile but more enduring, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, remain poised a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unflinchingly, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.
A small grove massacred to the last ash, _x000D_ _x000D_ An oak with heart-rot, give away the show: _x000D_ _x000D_ This great society is going to smash; _x000D_ _x000D_ They cannot fool us with how fast they go, _x000D_ _x000D_ How much they cost each other and the gods. _x000D_ _x000D_ A culture is no better than its woods.
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