The Wild Swans at Coole by W. B. Yeats

Source of book: I own this.

 

Back in 2013, I read and wrote about selections from three early collections of poems by Yeats. Back then, I had a paperback volume with selected poems, plus a few of the plays. Since then, my wife found a hardback complete poems, which is what I read from this time. It turns out that this book is number one of fourteen volumes (!) of Yeats’ collected works. That includes letters and articles and a bunch of crazy stuff. I had no idea. 

 In any case, I decided to read The Wild Swans at Coole for a kind of random reason. It was before Halloween, and my youngest kid walked in. I randomly flipped through a bit, and found a poem about a cat (see below) and read it to her. So I figured I might as well read the whole collection. 

 

The Wild Swans at Coole is from 1919, essentially in the middle period of Yeats’ career. However, the writing didn’t change that much, in my view, as the same sense of melancholy and age continued, as did the poems making reference to Irish stories and events. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing, of course. I did rather enjoy reading these poems. 

 

A few particularly stood out. Let’s start with the title poem.

 

“The Wild Swans at Coole”

 

The trees are in their autumn beauty,

The woodland paths are dry,

Under the October twilight the water

Mirrors a still sky;

Upon the brimming water among the stones

Are nine-and-fifty swans.

 

The nineteenth autumn has come upon me

Since I first made my count;

I saw, before I had well finished,

All suddenly mount

And scatter wheeling in great broken rings

Upon their clamorous wings.

 

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,

And now my heart is sore.

All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,

The first time on this shore,

The bell-beat of their wings above my head,

Trod with a lighter tread.

 

Unwearied still, lover by lover,

They paddle in the cold

Companionable streams or climb the air;

Their hearts have not grown old;

Passion or conquest, wander where they will,

Attend upon them still.

 

But now they drift on the still water,

Mysterious, beautiful;

Among what rushes will they build,

By what lake's edge or pool

Delight men's eyes when I awake some day

To find they have flown away?

 

I’m a sucker for a good nature lyric, and this one qualifies. There is also the characteristic nostalgia and melancholy so characteristic of Yeats’ poetry. 

 

Even as a young man, Yeats seems to have been haunted by aging and the brevity of life. Here is another poem on that theme. 

 

“The Living Beauty”

 

I'll say and maybe dream I have drawn content—

Seeing that time has frozen up the blood,

The wick of youth being burned and the oil spent—

From beauty that is cast out of a mould

In bronze, or that in dazzling marble appears,

Appears, but when we have gone is gone again,

Being more indifferent to our solitude

Than 'twere an apparition. O heart, we are old,

The living beauty is for younger men,

We cannot pay its tribute of wild tears.

 

Another poem I particularly loved was this one, with its metaphor of the hawk as a representation of the caged mind, expected to perform for dullards and knaves. 

 

“The Hawk”

 

'Call down the hawk from the air;

Let him be hooded or caged

Till the yellow eye has grown mild,

For larder and spit are bare,

The old cook enraged,

The scullion gone wild.'

 

'I will not be clapped in a hood,

Nor a cage, nor alight upon wrist,

Now I have learnt to be proud

Hovering over the wood

In the broken mist

Or tumbling cloud.'

 

'What tumbling cloud did you cleave,

Yellow-eyed hawk of the mind,

Last evening? that I, who had sat

Dumbfounded before a knave,

Should give to my friend

A pretense of wit.'

 

The final poem that I wanted to quote was “The Cat and the Moon.” There are several poems about the moon in this collection, with quite different themes and ideas. But, as a cat lover, this one was simply outstanding to me. My kid liked it too. 

 

“The Cat and the Moon”

 

The cat went here and there
And the moon spun round like a top,
And the nearest kin of the moon,
The creeping cat, looked up.
Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon,
For, wander and wail as he would,
The pure cold light in the sky
Troubled his animal blood.
Minnaloushe runs in the grass
Lifting his delicate feet.
Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?
When two close kindred meet,
What better than call a dance?
Maybe the moon may learn,
Tired of that courtly fashion,
A new dance turn.
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
From moonlit place to place,
The sacred moon overhead
Has taken a new phase.

Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils
Will pass from change to change,
And that from round to crescent,
From crescent to round they range?
 Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
 Alone, important and wise,
 And lifts to the changing moon
 His changing eyes. 

 

There does seem to be a particular connection that cats have to the moon. Even our indoor cat has changes in her demeanor after dark depending on the phase of the moon. And the outdoor (“barnyard”) cats, well, they lift to the changing moon their changing eyes. 

 

I’m thinking I probably shouldn’t go eight years before I read more Yeats this next time. I quite enjoyed the experience.