Coole and Ballylee, 1931

    Otters below and moor-hens on the top，

    Run for a mile undimmed in Heaven‘s face

    Then darkening through ‘dark’ Raftery‘s ’cellar‘ drop，

    Run underground， rise in a rocky place

    In Coole demesne， and there to finish up

    Spread to a lake and drop into a hole.

    What‘s water but the generated soul？

    Upon the border of that lake‘s a wood

    Now all dry sticks under a wintry sun，

    And in a copse of beeches there I stood，

    For Nature‘s pulled her tragic buskin on

    And all the rant‘s a mirror of my mood：

    At sudden thunder of the mounting swan

    I turned about and looked where branches break

    The glittering reaches of the flooded lake.

    Another emblem there！ That stormy white

    But seems a concentration of the sky；

    And， like the soul， it sails into the sight

    And in the morning‘s gone， no man knows why；

    And is so lovely that it sets to right

    What knowledge or its lack had set awry，

    So arrogantly pure， a child might think

    It can be murdered with a spot of ink.

    Sound of a stick upon the floor， a sound

    From somebody that toils from chair to chair；

    Beloved books that famous hands have bound，

    Old marble heads， old pictures everywhere；

    Great rooms where travelled men and children found

    Content or joy； a last inheritor

    Where none has reigned that lacked a name and fame

    Or out of folly into folly came.

    A spot whereon the founders lived and died

    Seemed once more dear than life； ancestral trees，

    Or gardens rich in memory glorified

    Marriages， alliances and families，

    And every bride‘s ambition satisfied.

    Where fashion or mere fantasy decrees

    Man shifts about—all that great glory spent—

    Like some poor Arab tribesman and his tent.

    We were the last romantics—chose for theme

    Traditional sanctity and loveliness；

    Whatever‘s written in what poets name

    The book of the people； whatever most can bless

    The mind of man or elevate a rhyme；

    But all is changed， that high horse riderless，

    Though mounted in that saddle Homer rode

    Where the swan drifts upon a darkening flood.