Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait,
For God has bid them share an equal fate;
And when at last defeated in His wars,
They have gone down under the same white stars,
We shall no longer hear the little cry
Of our sad hearts, that may not live nor die.

I was struck yesterday, September 1, by the dates of Yeats' birth and death. 1865 and 1939. My pause was but a series of moments, my thoughts dragging themselves across the rocks of history, reading and a world too full of weeping. Should we champion the Orange, Velvet, Spring and make allowance for continued stone-breaking? I refute you thusly!Technology continues apace whereas our elan vital becomes a function.
An application.
A talking cure for the shipwrecked.
The edge of these sojourns leave me scratched and sore but seldom broken. Perhaps I lack the vitality to be crushed. I lack the self-awareness for such.

Temerity leads elsewhere.

I feel almost Canadian in that regard. Yeats worked for me. ( )

Overzicht van de belangrijste gedichten van Yeats. ( )