'The Wanderings of Oisin: Book II' by William Butler Yeats

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The Wanderings of Oisin1889Now, man of croziers, shadows called our names
And then away, away, like whirling flames;
And now fled by, mist-covered, without sound,
The youth and lady and the deer and hound;
'Gaze no more on the phantoms,' Niamh said,
And kissed my eyes, and, swaying her bright head
And her bright body, sang of faery and man
Before God was or my old line began;
Wars shadowy, vast, exultant; faeries of old
Who wedded men with rings of Druid gold;
And how those lovers never turn their eyes
Upon the life that fades and flickers and dies,
Yet love and kiss on dim shores far away
Rolled round with music of the sighing spray:
Yet sang no more as when, like a brown bee
That has drunk full, she crossed the misty sea
With me in her white arms a hundred years
Before this day; for now the fall of tears
Troubled her song.I do not know if days
Or hours passed by, yet hold the morning rays
Shone many times among the glimmering flowers
Woven into her hair, before dark towers
Rose in the darkness, and the white surf gleamed
About them; and the horse of Faery screamed
And shivered, knowing the Isle of Many Fears,
Nor ceased until white Niamh stroked his ears
And named him by sweet names.A foaming tide
Whitened afar with surge, fan-formed and wide,
Burst from a great door matred by many a blow
From mace and sword and pole-axe, long ago
When gods and giants warred.We rode between
The seaweed-covered pillars; and the green
And surging phosphorus alone gave light
On our dark pathway, till a countless flight
Of moonlit steps glimmered; and left and right
Dark statues glimmered over the pale tide
Upon dark thrones.Between the lids of one
The imaged meteors had flashed and run
And had disported in the stilly jet,
And the fixed stars had dawned and shone and set,
Since God made Time and Death and Sleep:the other
Stretched his long arm to where, a misty smother,
The stream churned, churned, and churned - his lips apart,
As though he told his never-slumbering heart
Of every foamdrop on its misty way.
Tying the horse to his vast foot that lay
Half in the unvesselled sea, we climbed the stair
And climbed so long, I thought the last steps were
Hung from the morning star; when these mild words
Fanned the delighted air like wings of birds:
'My brothers spring out of their beds at morn,
A-murmur like young partridge:with loud horn
They chase the noontide deer;
And when the dew-drowned stars hang in the air
Look to long fishing-lines, or point and pare
An ashen hunting spear.
O sigh, O fluttering sigh, be kind to me;
Flutter along the froth lips of the sea,
And shores the froth lips wet:
And stay a little while, and bid them weep:
Ah, touch their blue-veined eyelids if they sleep,
And shake their coverlet.
When you have told how I weep endlessly,
Flutter along the froth lips of the sea
And home to me again,
And in the shadow of my hair lie hid,
And tell me that you found a man unbid,
The saddest of all men.'A lady with soft eyes like funeral tapers,
And face that seemed wrought out of moonlit vapours,
And a sad mouth, that fear made tremulous
As any ruddy moth, looked down on us;
And she with a wave-rusted chain was tied
To two old eagles, full of ancient pride,
That with dim eyeballs stood on either side.
Few feathers were on their dishevelled wings,
For their dim minds were with the ancient things.'I bring deliverance,' pearl-pale Niamh said.'Neither the living, nor the unlabouring dead,
Nor the high gods who never lived, may fight
My enemy and hope; demons for fright
Jabber and scream about him in the night;
For he is strong and crafty as the seas
That sprang under the Seven Hazel Trees,
And I must needs endure and hate and weep,
Until the gods and demons drop asleep,
Hearing Acdh touch thc mournful strings of gold.''Is he so dreadful?''Be not over-bold,
But fly while still you may.'And thereon I:
'This demon shall be battered till he die,
And his loose bulk be thrown in the loud tide.'
'Flee from him,' pearl-pale Niamh weeping cried,
'For all men flee the demons'; but moved not
My angry king-remembering soul one jot.
There was no mightier soul of Heber's line;
Now it is old and mouse-like.For a sign
I burst the chain:still earless, neNeless, blind,
Wrapped in the things of the unhuman mind,
In some dim memory or ancient mood,
Still earless, netveless, blind, the eagles stood.And then we climbed the stair to a high door;
A hundred horsemen on the basalt floor
Beneath had paced content:we held our way
And stood within:clothed in a misty ray
I saw a foam-white seagull drift and float
Under the roof, and with a straining throat
Shouted, and hailed him:he hung there a star,
For no man's cry shall ever mount so far;
Not even your God could have thrown down that hall;
Stabling His unloosed lightnings in their stall,
He had sat down and sighed with cumbered heart,
As though His hour were come.We sought the part
That was most distant from the door; green slime
Made the way slippery, and time on time
Showed prints of sea-born scales, while down through it
The captive's journeys to and fro were writ
Like a small river, and where feet touched came
A momentary gleam of phosphorus flame.
Under the deepest shadows of the hall
That woman found a ring hung on the wall,
And in the ring a torch, and with its flare
Making a world about her in the air,
Passed under the dim doorway, out of sight,
And came again, holding a second light
Burning between her fingers, and in mine
Laid it and sighed:I held a sword whose shine
No centuries could dim, and a word ran
Thereon in Ogham letters, 'Manannan';
That sea-god's name, who in a deep content
Sprang dripping, and, with captive demons sent
Out of the sevenfold seas, built the dark hall
Rooted in foam and clouds, and cried to all
The mightier masters of a mightier race;
And at his cry there came no milk-pale face
Under a crown of thorns and dark with blood,
But only exultant faces.Niamh stood
With bowed head, trembling when the white blade shone,
But she whose hours of tenderness were gone
Had neither hope nor fear.I bade them hide
Under the shadowS till the tumults died
Of the loud-crashing and earth-shaking fight,
Lest they should look upon some dreadful sight;
And thrust the torch between the slimy flags.
A dome made out of endless carven jags,
Where shadowy face flowed into shadowy face,
Looked down on me; and in the self-same place
I waited hour by hour, and the high dome,
Windowless, pillarless, multitudinous home
Of faces, waited; and the leisured gaze
Was loaded with the memory of days
Buried and mighty.When through the great door
The dawn came in, and glimmered on the floor
With a pale light, I journeyed round the hall
And found a door deep sunken in the wall,
The least of doors; beyond on a dim plain
A little mnnel made a bubbling strain,
And on the runnel's stony and bare edge
A dusky demon dry as a withered sedge
Swayed, crooning to himself an unknown tongue:
In a sad revelry he sang and swung
Bacchant and mournful, passing to and fro
His hand along the runnel's side, as though
The flowers still grew there:far on the sea's waste
Shaking and waving, vapour vapour chased,
While high frail cloudlets, fed with a green light,
Like drifts of leaves, immovable and bright,
Hung in the passionate dawn.He slowly turned:
A demon's leisure:eyes, first white, now burned
Like wings of kingfishers; and he arose
Barking.We trampled up and down with blows
Of sword and brazen battle-axe, while day
Gave to high noon and noon to night gave way;
And when he knew the sword of Manannan
Amid the shades of night, he changed and ran
Through many shapes; I lunged at the smooth throat
Of a great eel; it changed, and I but smote
A fir-tree roaring in its leafless top;
And thereupon I drew the livid chop
Of a drowned dripping body to my breast;
Horror from horror grew; but when the west
Had surged up in a plumy fire, I drave
Through heart and spine; and cast him in the wave
Lest Niamh shudder.Full of hope and dread
Those two came carrying wine and meat and bread,
And healed my wounds with unguents out of flowers
That feed white moths by some De Danaan shrine;
Then in that hall, lit by the dim sea-shine,
We lay on skins of otters, and drank wine,
Brewed by the sea-gods, from huge cups that lay
Upon the lips of sea-gods in their day;
And then on heaped-up skins of otters slept.
And when the sun once more in saffron stept,
Rolling his flagrant wheel out of the deep,
We sang the loves and angers without sleep,
And all the exultant labours of the strong.
But now the lying clerics murder song
With barren words and flatteries of the weak.
In what land do the powerless turn the beak
Of ravening Sorrow, or the hand of Wrath?
For all your croziers, they have left the path
And wander in the storms and clinging snows,
Hopeless for ever:ancient Oisin knows,
For he is weak and poor and blind, and lies
On the anvil of the world.

Editor 1 Interpretation

The Wanderings of Oisin: Book II - A Masterpiece of Irish Mythology

As I delve into William Butler Yeats' masterpiece, The Wanderings of Oisin: Book II, I cannot help but feel a sense of awe at the sheer beauty and complexity of this work of art. Yeats' poem is a masterful exploration of Irish mythology, weaving together the threads of ancient legends and myths with his own poetic vision, creating a work that is both timeless and deeply rooted in the cultural heritage of Ireland.

A Journey Through Time and Space

At its core, The Wanderings of Oisin: Book II is a journey through time and space, as the hero Oisin, son of Finn MacCool, travels through the Otherworld, encountering a host of mythical beings and experiencing a range of emotions, from joy to despair. The poem is divided into four parts, each of which takes the reader on a different stage of Oisin's journey, as he journeys through a series of landscapes, encountering a range of characters and experiencing a range of emotions.

The first part of the poem takes place in the Land of Youth, where Oisin meets with his beloved Niamh, and they spend what seems like an eternity together in a state of blissful happiness. The second part of the poem sees Oisin return to the mortal world, where he encounters a group of Christian monks, who he initially dismisses as ignorant and foolish. However, he soon begins to feel a sense of disillusionment with the world he once knew, and longs to return to the Otherworld.

In the third part of the poem, Oisin journeys to the Island of Forgetfulness, where he meets with Fergus, a former friend who has been transformed into a swan. Here, Oisin is confronted with the reality of mortality, as he realizes that all things must eventually come to an end. Finally, in the fourth and final part of the poem, Oisin returns to the Land of Youth, only to find that everything has changed, and he is unable to recapture the happiness he once knew.

A Poetic Exploration of Myth and Legend

At its heart, The Wanderings of Oisin: Book II is a poetic exploration of the myths and legends that have shaped Irish culture for centuries. Yeats draws on a range of sources, from the ancient Fenian Cycle to the stories of the Tuatha De Danann, weaving together a complex tapestry of characters and stories that reflect the rich cultural heritage of Ireland.

One of the key themes of the poem is the tension between the old pagan world and the new Christian order that was beginning to emerge in Ireland in the early centuries of the Common Era. Yeats portrays the Christian monks as narrow-minded and ignorant, unable to understand the complexities of the world that Oisin has experienced. At the same time, however, he also acknowledges the power of the Christian faith to inspire hope and comfort in those who are facing the inevitability of death.

A Masterful Use of Language and Imagery

One of the most striking features of The Wanderings of Oisin: Book II is Yeats' masterful use of language and imagery. The poem is filled with vivid and evocative descriptions, from the lush landscapes of the Land of Youth to the desolate wasteland of the Island of Forgetfulness. Yeats' use of symbolism is also particularly striking, with the swan representing the fleeting nature of life and the inevitability of death, while the horses that Oisin rides symbolize the power and beauty of the natural world.

Perhaps most impressive, however, is Yeats' ability to capture the emotions and experiences of his characters with such depth and subtlety. From the joy and ecstasy of Oisin and Niamh's love to the despair and disillusionment that Oisin feels upon his return to the mortal world, Yeats' poetry is a masterful exploration of the human experience.

A Timeless Classic of Irish Literature

In conclusion, The Wanderings of Oisin: Book II is a timeless classic of Irish literature, a poetic masterpiece that explores the complexities of Irish mythology and the human experience. Yeats' use of language and imagery is truly masterful, and his ability to capture the emotions and experiences of his characters with such depth and subtlety is truly impressive. This is a work of art that deserves to be celebrated and studied for generations to come, a testament to the enduring power of poetry to capture the essence of the human soul.

Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation

The Wanderings of Oisin: Book II is a classic poem written by the legendary Irish poet William Butler Yeats. This epic poem is a continuation of the story of Oisin, a legendary warrior and poet from ancient Ireland. In this second book, Yeats takes us on a journey through the mystical and magical world of the Sidhe, the fairy folk of Irish mythology. The poem is a beautiful and haunting exploration of the themes of love, loss, and the passage of time.

The poem begins with Oisin returning to Ireland after spending three hundred years in the land of the Sidhe. He is accompanied by his beloved Niamh, a fairy queen who had taken him away to her magical realm. Oisin is filled with a sense of longing and nostalgia as he returns to his homeland, which has changed beyond recognition in his absence. He is saddened by the fact that his fellow warriors and friends have all passed away, and he is now a stranger in his own land.

As Oisin wanders through the countryside, he encounters a group of Christian monks who are building a church. They ask him to help them with their work, but Oisin is reluctant to do so. He tells them that he is a warrior and a poet, not a builder of churches. He also expresses his disdain for the Christian religion, which he sees as a threat to the ancient pagan traditions of Ireland.

The encounter with the monks is a powerful moment in the poem, as it highlights the clash between the old pagan ways and the new Christian religion that was sweeping across Ireland at the time. Yeats was deeply interested in the mythology and folklore of Ireland, and he saw the Christianization of Ireland as a tragic loss of the country's ancient cultural heritage.

As Oisin continues his wanderings, he encounters a beautiful young woman named St. Patrick's Eve. She is a symbol of the new Christian Ireland, and Oisin is immediately drawn to her. However, he is torn between his love for her and his loyalty to Niamh, his fairy queen. He realizes that he cannot have both, and he must choose between the two.

The theme of love and loss is a central theme in the poem, as Oisin grapples with his feelings for both Niamh and St. Patrick's Eve. He is torn between his loyalty to the past and his desire for the future. This conflict is a powerful metaphor for the struggle between tradition and modernity that was taking place in Ireland at the time.

As the poem draws to a close, Oisin realizes that he cannot stay in Ireland any longer. He must return to the land of the Sidhe, where he belongs. He bids farewell to St. Patrick's Eve and sets off on his journey back to the magical realm.

The Wanderings of Oisin: Book II is a beautiful and haunting poem that captures the essence of Irish mythology and folklore. Yeats was a master of language and imagery, and his use of symbolism and metaphor in this poem is truly breathtaking. The poem is a powerful meditation on the themes of love, loss, and the passage of time, and it remains a classic of Irish literature to this day.

In conclusion, The Wanderings of Oisin: Book II is a masterpiece of Irish poetry that continues to captivate readers to this day. Yeats' use of language and imagery is truly breathtaking, and his exploration of the themes of love, loss, and the clash between tradition and modernity is both powerful and poignant. This poem is a testament to the enduring power of Irish mythology and folklore, and it remains a must-read for anyone interested in the rich cultural heritage of Ireland.

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