William Butler Yeats (1865 – 1939), charcoal drawing by John Singer Sargent / Wikimedia CommonsSomething happened to William Butler Yeats on his way to becoming a painter…in the footsteps of his father. He decided he liked writing poetry better. Certainly he was a favorite of most of the English teachers I’ve ever had, but I don’t remember any of them assigning his foxhunting poems for study! Yeats was born in Ireland, so the foxhunting came naturally.
“Now lay me in a cushioned chair
And carry me, you four,
With cushions here and cushions there,
To see the world once more.
And some one from the stable bring
My Dermot dear and brown,
And lead him gently in a ring,
And gently up and down.
Now leave the chair upon the grass
Bring hound and huntsman here,
And I on this strange road will pass,
Filled full of ancient cheer.”
His eyelids droop, his head falls low,
His old eyes cloud with dreams;
The sun upon all things that grow
Pours round in sleepy streams.
Brown Dermot treads upon the lawn,
And to the armchair goes,
And now the old man’s dreams are gone,
He smooths the long brown nose.
And now moves many a pleasant tongue
Upon his wasted hands,
For leading aged hounds and young
The huntsman near him stands.
“My huntsman, Rody, blow the horn
And make the hills reply.”
The huntsman loosens on the morn
A gay and wandering cry.
A fire is in the old man’s eyes
His fingers move and sway,
And when the wandering music dies,
They hear him feebly say—
“My huntsman, Rody, blow the horn,
And make the hills reply.”
“I cannot blow upon my horn,
I can but weep and sigh.”
The servants round his cushioned place
Are with new sorrow wrung;
And hounds are gazing on his face,
Both aged hounds and young.
One blind hound only lies apart
On the sun-smitten grass;
He holds deep commune in his heart:
The moments pass and pass.
The blind hound with a mournful din
Lifts slow his wintry head;
The servants bear the body in—
The hounds wail for the dead.
Posted July 14, 2020