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

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S. Patrick. You who are bent, and bald, and blind,
With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,
Have known three centuries, poets sing,
Of dalliance with a demon thing.

Oisin. Sad to remember, sick with years,
The swift innumerable spears,
The horsemen with their floating hair,
And bowls of barley, honey, and wine,
Those merry couples dancing in tune,
And the white body that lay by mine;
But the tale, though words be lighter than air.
Must live to be old like the wandering moon.

Caoilte, and Conan, and Finn were there,
When we followed a deer with our baying hounds.
With Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
And passing the Firbolgs' burial-motmds,
Came to the cairn-heaped grassy hill
Where passionate Maeve is stony-still;
And found On the dove-grey edge of the sea
A pearl-pale, high-born lady, who rode
On a horse with bridle of findrinny;
And like a sunset were her lips,
A stormy sunset on doomed ships;
A citron colour gloomed in her hair,

But down to her feet white vesture flowed,
And with the glimmering crimson glowed
Of many a figured embroidery;
And it was bound with a pearl-pale shell
That wavered like the summer streams,
As her soft bosom rose and fell.

S. Patrick. You are still wrecked among heathen dreams.

Oisin. 'Why do you wind no horn?' she said
'And every hero droop his head?
The hornless deer is not more sad
That many a peaceful moment had,
More sleek than any granary mouse,
In his own leafy forest house
Among the waving fields of fern:
The hunting of heroes should be glad.'

'O pleasant woman,' answered Finn,
'We think on Oscar's pencilled urn,
And on the heroes lying slain
On Gabhra's raven-covered plain;
But where are your noble kith and kin,
And from what country do you ride?'

'My father and my mother are
Aengus and Edain, my own name
Niamh, and my country far
Beyond the tumbling of this tide.'

'What dream came with you that you came
Through bitter tide on foam-wet feet?
Did your companion wander away
From where the birds of Aengus wing?'
Thereon did she look haughty and sweet:
'I have not yet, war-weary king,
Been spoken of with any man;
Yet now I choose, for these four feet
Ran through the foam and ran to this
That I might have your son to kiss.'

'Were there no better than my son
That you through all that foam should run?'

'I loved no man, though kings besought,
Until the Danaan poets brought
Rhyme that rhymed upon Oisin's name,
And now I am dizzy with the thought
Of all that wisdom and the fame
Of battles broken by his hands,
Of stories builded by his words
That are like coloured Asian birds
At evening in their rainless lands.'

O Patrick, by your brazen bell,
There was no limb of mine but fell
Into a desperate gulph of love!
'You only will I wed,' I cried,
'And I will make a thousand songs,
And set your name all names above,
And captives bound with leathern thongs
Shall kneel and praise you, one by one,
At evening in my western dun.'

'O Oisin, mount by me and ride
To shores by the wash of the tremulous tide,
Where men have heaped no burial-mounds,
And the days pass by like a wayward tune,
Where broken faith has never been known
And the blushes of first love never have flown;
And there I will give you a hundred hounds;
No mightier creatures bay at the moon;
And a hundred robes of murmuring silk,
And a hundred calves and a hundred sheep
Whose long wool whiter than sea-froth flows,
And a hundred spears and a hundred bows,
And oil and wine and honey and milk,
And always never-anxious sleep;
While a hundred youths, mighty of limb,
But knowing nor tumult nor hate nor strife,
And a hundred ladies, merry as birds,
Who when they dance to a fitful measure
Have a speed like the speed of the salmon herds,
Shall follow your horn and obey your whim,
And you shall know the Danaan leisure;
And Niamh be with you for a wife.'
Then she sighed gently, 'It grows late.
Music and love and sleep await,
Where I would be when the white moon climbs,
The red sun falls and the world grows dim.'

And then I mounted and she bound me
With her triumphing arms around me,
And whispering to herself enwound me;
He shook himself and neighed three times:
Caoilte, Conan, and Finn came near,
And wept, and raised their lamenting hands,
And bid me stay, with many a tear;
But we rode out from the human lands.
In what far kingdom do you go'
Ah Fenians, with the shield and bow?
Or are you phantoms white as snow,
Whose lips had life's most prosperous glow?
O you, with whom in sloping vallcys,
Or down the dewy forest alleys,
I chased at morn the flying deer,
With whom I hurled the hurrying spear,
And heard the foemen's bucklers rattle,
And broke the heaving ranks of battle!
And Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
Where are you with your long rough hair?
You go not where the red deer feeds,
Nor tear the foemen from their steeds.

S. Patrick. Boast not, nor mourn with drooping head
Companions long accurst and dead,
And hounds for centuries dust and air.

Oisin. We galloped over the glossy sea:
I know not if days passed or hours,
And Niamh sang continually
Danaan songs, and their dewy showers
Of pensive laughter, unhuman sound,
Lulled weariness, and softly round
My human sorrow her white arms wound.
We galloped; now a hornless deer
Passed by us, chased by a phantom hound
All pearly white, save one red ear;
And now a lady rode like the wind
With an apple of gold in her tossing hand;
And a beautiful young man followed behind
With quenchless gaze and fluttering hair.
'Were these two born in the Danaan land,
Or have they breathed the mortal air?'

'Vex them no longer,' Niamh said,
And sighing bowed her gentle head,
And sighing laid the pearly tip
Of one long finger on my lip.

But now the moon like a white rose shone
In the pale west, and the sun'S rim sank,
And clouds atrayed their rank on rank
About his fading crimson ball:
The floor of Almhuin's hosting hall
Was not more level than the sea,
As, full of loving fantasy,
And with low murmurs, we rode on,
Where many a trumpet-twisted shell
That in immortal silence sleeps
Dreaming of her own melting hues,
Her golds, her ambers, and her blues,
Pierced with soft light the shallowing deeps.
But now a wandering land breeze came
And a far sound of feathery quires;
It seemed to blow from the dying flame,
They seemed to sing in the smouldering fires.
The horse towards the music raced,
Neighing along the lifeless waste;
Like sooty fingers, many a tree
Rose ever out of the warm sea;
And they were trembling ceaselessly,
As though they all were beating time,
Upon the centre of the sun,
To that low laughing woodland rhyme.
And, now our wandering hours were done,
We cantered to the shore, and knew
The reason of the trembling trees:
Round every branch the song-birds flew,
Or clung thereon like swarming bees;
While round the shore a million stood
Like drops of frozen rainbow light,
And pondered in a soft vain mood
Upon their shadows in the tide,
And told the purple deeps their pride,
And murmured snatches of delight;
And on the shores were many boats
With bending sterns and bending bows,
And carven figures on their prows
Of bitterns, and fish-eating stoats,
And swans with their exultant throats:
And where the wood and waters meet
We tied the horse in a leafy clump,
And Niamh blew three merry notes
Out of a little silver trump;
And then an answering whispering flew
Over the bare and woody land,
A whisper of impetuous feet,
And ever nearer, nearer grew;
And from the woods rushed out a band
Of men and ladies, hand in hand,
And singing, singing all together;
Their brows were white as fragrant milk,
Their cloaks made out of yellow silk,
And trimmed with many a crimson feather;
And when they saw the cloak I wore
Was dim with mire of a mortal shore,
They fingered it and gazed on me
And laughed like murmurs of the sea;
But Niamh with a swift distress
Bid them away and hold their peace;
And when they heard her voice they ran
And knelt there, every girl and man,
And kissed, as they would never cease,
Her pearl-pale hand and the hem of her dress.
She bade them bring us to the hall
Where Aengus dreams, from sun to sun,
A Druid dream of the end of days
When the stars are to wane and the world be done.

They led us by long and shadowy ways
Where drops of dew in myriads fall,
And tangled creepers every hour
Blossom in some new crimson flower,
And once a sudden laughter sprang
From all their lips, and once they sang
Together, while the dark woods rang,
And made in all their distant parts,
With boom of bees in honey-marts,
A rumour of delighted hearts.
And once a lady by my side
Gave me a harp, and bid me sing,
And touch the laughing silver string;
But when I sang of human joy
A sorrow wrapped each merry face,
And, patrick! by your beard, they wept,
Until one came, a tearful boy;
'A sadder creature never stept
Than this strange human bard,' he cried;
And caught the silver harp away,
And, weeping over the white strings, hurled
It down in a leaf-hid, hollow place
That kept dim waters from the sky;
And each one said, with a long, long sigh,
'O saddest harp in all the world,
Sleep there till the moon and the stars die!'

And now, still sad, we came to where
A beautiful young man dreamed within
A house of wattles, clay, and skin;
One hand upheld his beardless chin,
And one a sceptre flashing out
Wild flames of red and gold and blue,
Like to a merry wandering rout
Of dancers leaping in the air;
And men and ladies knelt them there
And showed their eyes with teardrops dim,
And with low murmurs prayed to him,
And kissed the sceptre with red lips,
And touched it with their finger-tips.
He held that flashing sceptre up.
'Joy drowns the twilight in the dew,
And fills with stars night's purple cup,
And wakes the sluggard seeds of corn,
And stirs the young kid's budding horn,
And makes the infant ferns unwrap,
And for the peewit paints his cap,
And rolls along the unwieldy sun,
And makes the little planets run:
And if joy were not on the earth,
There were an end of change and birth,
And Earth and Heaven and Hell would die,
And in some gloomy barrow lie
Folded like a frozen fly;
Then mock at Death and Time with glances
And wavering arms and wandering dances.

'Men's hearts of old were drops of flame
That from the saffron morning came,
Or drops of silver joy that fell
Out of the moon's pale twisted shell;
But now hearts cry that hearts are slaves,
And toss and turn in narrow caves;
But here there is nor law nor rule,
Nor have hands held a weary tool;
And here there is nor Change nor Death,
But only kind and merry breath,
For joy is God and God is joy.'
With one long glance for girl and boy
And the pale blossom of the moon,
He fell into a Druid swoon.

And in a wild and sudden dance
We mocked at Time and Fate and Chance
And swept out of the wattled hall
And came to where the dewdrops fall
Among the foamdrops of the sea,
And there we hushed the revelry;
And, gathering on our brows a frown,
Bent all our swaying bodies down,
And to the waves that glimmer by
That sloping green De Danaan sod
Sang, 'God is joy and joy is God,
And things that have grown sad are wicked,
And things that fear the dawn of the morrow
Or the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

We danced to where in the winding thicket
The damask roses, bloom on bloom,
Like crimson meteors hang in the gloom.
And bending over them softly said,
Bending over them in the dance,
With a swift and friendly glance
From dewy eyes: 'Upon the dead
Fall the leaves of other roses,
On the dead dim earth encloses:
But never, never on our graves,
Heaped beside the glimmering waves,
Shall fall the leaves of damask roses.
For neither Death nor Change comes near us,
And all listless hours fear us,
And we fear no dawning morrow,
Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

The dance wound through the windless woods;
The ever-summered solitudes;
Until the tossing arms grew still
Upon the woody central hill;
And, gathered in a panting band,
We flung on high each waving hand,
And sang unto the starry broods.
In our raised eyes there flashed a glow
Of milky brightness to and fro
As thus our song arose: 'You stars,
Across your wandering ruby cars
Shake the loose reins: you slaves of God.
He rules you with an iron rod,
He holds you with an iron bond,
Each one woven to the other,
Each one woven to his brother
Like bubbles in a frozen pond;
But we in a lonely land abide
Unchainable as the dim tide,
With hearts that know nor law nor rule,
And hands that hold no wearisome tool,
Folded in love that fears no morrow,
Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

O Patrick! for a hundred years
I chased upon that woody shore
The deer, the badger, and the boar.
O patrick! for a hundred years
At evening on the glimmering sands,
Beside the piled-up hunting spears,
These now outworn and withered hands
Wrestled among the island bands.
O patrick! for a hundred years
We went a-fishing in long boats
With bending sterns and bending bows,
And carven figures on their prows
Of bitterns and fish-eating stoats.
O patrick! for a hundred years
The gentle Niamh was my wife;
But now two things devour my life;
The things that most of all I hate:
Fasting and prayers.

S. Patrick. Tell on.

Oisin. Yes, yes,
For these were ancient Oisin's fate
Loosed long ago from Heaven's gate,
For his last days to lie in wait.
When one day by the tide I stood,
I found in that forgetfulness
Of dreamy foam a staff of wood
From some dead warrior's broken lance:
I tutned it in my hands; the stains
Of war were on it, and I wept,
Remembering how the Fenians stept
Along the blood-bedabbled plains,
Equal to good or grievous chance:
Thereon young Niamh softly came
And caught my hands, but spake no word
Save only many times my name,
In murmurs, like a frighted bird.
We passed by woods, and lawns of clover,
And found the horse and bridled him,
For we knew well the old was over.
I heard one say, 'His eyes grow dim
With all the ancient sorrow of men';
And wrapped in dreams rode out again
With hoofs of the pale findrinny
Over the glimmering purple sea.
Under the golden evening light,
The Immortals moved among thc fountains
By rivers and the woods' old night;
Some danced like shadows on the mountains
Some wandered ever hand in hand;
Or sat in dreams on the pale strand,
Each forehead like an obscure star
Bent down above each hooked knee,
And sang, and with a dreamy gaze
Watched where the sun in a saffron blaze
Was slumbering half in the sea-ways;
And, as they sang, the painted birds
Kept time with their bright wings and feet;
Like drops of honey came their words,
But fainter than a young lamb's bleat.

'An old man stirs the fire to a blaze,
In the house of a child, of a friend, of a brother.
He has over-lingered his welcome; the days,
Grown desolate, whisper and sigh to each other;
He hears the storm in the chimney above,
And bends to the fire and shakes with the cold,
While his heart still dreams of battle and love,
And the cry of the hounds on the hills of old.

But We are apart in the grassy places,
Where care cannot trouble the least of our days,
Or the softness of youth be gone from our faces,
Or love's first tenderness die in our gaze.
The hare grows old as she plays in the sun
And gazes around her with eyes of brightness;
Before the swift things that she dreamed of were done
She limps along in an aged whiteness;
A storm of birds in the Asian trees
Like tulips in the air a-winging,
And the gentle waves of the summer seas,
That raise their heads and wander singing,
Must murmur at last, "Unjust, unjust";
And "My speed is a weariness," falters the mouse,
And the kingfisher turns to a ball of dust,
And the roof falls in of his tunnelled house.
But the love-dew dims our eyes till the day
When God shall come from the Sea with a sigh
And bid the stars drop down from the sky,
And the moon like a pale rose wither away.'

Editor 1 Interpretation

The Wanderings of Oisin: Book I by William Butler Yeats

Oh, what a poem! The Wanderings of Oisin: Book I by William Butler Yeats is one of those masterpieces that leaves you speechless. The richness of the language, the depth of the imagery, and the power of the narrative are awe-inspiring. In this literary criticism, we will explore the different themes, symbols, and literary devices used in the poem to understand its meaning and significance.

Summary of the Poem

The Wanderings of Oisin: Book I is a narrative poem that tells the story of the Irish warrior Oisin who, after living in the Otherworld with the fairy queen Niamh for 300 years, returns to Ireland to find it changed and his people gone. The poem describes Oisin's travels across the country, his encounters with various characters, and his reflections on his past and present life. Along the way, Oisin meets a group of Christian monks who try to convert him, but he refuses and continues his journey. The poem ends with Oisin returning to the Otherworld, leaving behind his mortal life and the changes that have taken place in Ireland.

Themes

The Wanderings of Oisin: Book I explores several themes that are central to Yeats's worldview and artistic vision. Some of these themes include:

The Otherworld and the Supernatural

The Otherworld is a recurring motif in Yeats's poetry, and it plays a significant role in The Wanderings of Oisin: Book I. The Otherworld represents a realm beyond the physical world, where supernatural beings and forces exist. In the poem, Oisin lives in the Otherworld with the fairy queen Niamh, a symbol of the supernatural and the magical. Oisin's return to Ireland marks his transition from the Otherworld to the mortal world, and his encounters with the Christian monks highlight the clash between the supernatural and the human.

Time and Change

Time and change are also important themes in the poem. Oisin's return to Ireland after 300 years in the Otherworld highlights the passage of time and the inevitability of change. Oisin finds his people gone, his language forgotten, and his country transformed. His encounters with the Christian monks also reveal the clash between the old pagan world and the new Christian one, showing the impact of time and change on cultures and societies.

Identity and Selfhood

The poem also explores the themes of identity and selfhood. Oisin's journey across Ireland is a journey of self-discovery and reflection. He reflects on his past life in the Otherworld, his experiences with Niamh, and his identity as a warrior and a poet. His encounters with other characters, such as the Christian monks and the young girl, further challenge his sense of identity and selfhood, forcing him to question his beliefs and values.

Symbols and Literary Devices

The Wanderings of Oisin: Book I is rich in symbols and literary devices that enhance its meaning and significance. Some of these symbols and devices include:

The Horse

The horse is a recurring symbol in the poem, representing strength, freedom, and beauty. Oisin's horse, Lir, is described as "a flame of the forest" and "a wild wave," emphasizing its power and vitality. The horse also symbolizes Oisin's connection to nature and the Otherworld, as horses were often associated with supernatural beings in Celtic mythology.

The Monks

The Christian monks that Oisin encounters symbolize the clash between the old pagan world and the new Christian one. The monks represent the forces of change and transformation, challenging Oisin's beliefs and values. Their attempts to convert Oisin also highlight the conflict between the supernatural and the human, as Christianity sought to replace pagan beliefs with a new religious doctrine.

The Sea

The sea is a recurring image in the poem, representing the unknown and the infinite. Oisin's journey across the sea to return to Ireland is a metaphor for his journey of self-discovery and reflection. The sea also symbolizes the passage of time and the inevitability of change, as it is a force that cannot be controlled or conquered.

Repetition

Repetition is a prominent literary device in the poem, used to emphasize key themes and motifs. The repetition of phrases such as "I am Oisin, the son of Fionn" and "the road, the road, the ever-enduring road" highlights Oisin's sense of identity and his journey across Ireland. The repetition of the phrase "Down by the salley gardens" at the end of the poem also adds a sense of closure and finality.

Interpretation

The Wanderings of Oisin: Book I is a complex and multi-layered poem that invites multiple interpretations. At its core, the poem is a meditation on the themes of time, change, and identity, exploring the tension between the supernatural and the human and the clash between old pagan beliefs and new Christian ones. The poem also highlights Yeats's interest in Celtic mythology and his fascination with the Otherworld, which he saw as a source of inspiration and creativity.

One interpretation of the poem is that it represents Yeats's own struggle with the changing world around him. Yeats was deeply invested in the Celtic Revival movement, which sought to revive Irish culture and traditions in the face of British colonialism and modernization. The poem can be read as a reflection of Yeats's own anxieties about the loss of Irish identity and the erosion of traditional beliefs and practices.

Another interpretation of the poem is that it represents Yeats's view of the artist's role in society. Oisin's journey across Ireland can be seen as a metaphor for the artist's journey of self-discovery and reflection, as he grapples with questions of identity and meaning in a rapidly changing world. The poem can be seen as a call for artists to embrace their role as cultural custodians and to preserve the traditions and beliefs of their people.

Conclusion

In conclusion, The Wanderings of Oisin: Book I is a masterpiece of Irish poetry, rich in symbolism, imagery, and literary devices. The poem explores themes of time, change, identity, and the supernatural, highlighting Yeats's interest in Celtic mythology and his fascination with the Otherworld. The poem invites multiple interpretations, ranging from a reflection on Yeats's own anxieties about the changing world to a meditation on the role of the artist in society. Whatever the interpretation, The Wanderings of Oisin: Book I remains a timeless work of art that continues to inspire and captivate readers today.

Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation

The Wanderings of Oisin: Book I - A Journey Through Time and Mythology

William Butler Yeats, the Irish poet and playwright, is known for his deep interest in Irish mythology and folklore. His poem, The Wanderings of Oisin: Book I, is a prime example of his fascination with the ancient tales of Ireland. The poem is a journey through time and mythology, exploring the themes of love, loss, and the passing of time.

The poem is divided into three parts, each representing a different stage in the life of the protagonist, Oisin. The first part begins with Oisin, an old man, reminiscing about his past. He remembers his youth, when he was a warrior and a poet, and his love for Niamh, a fairy queen. He speaks of his journey with her to the Land of Youth, where they lived together for three hundred years. However, he eventually grew homesick and returned to Ireland, only to find that three hundred years had passed in his absence.

The second part of the poem is a dialogue between Oisin and St. Patrick, the Christian missionary who converted Ireland to Christianity. St. Patrick tries to convince Oisin to renounce his pagan beliefs and embrace Christianity. However, Oisin is reluctant to do so, as he believes that his pagan beliefs are an integral part of his identity and his connection to his ancestors.

The third part of the poem is a lament for the passing of the old ways and the loss of the pagan gods. Oisin mourns the loss of his youth, his love, and his connection to the Land of Youth. He speaks of the new Christian era, which he sees as a time of darkness and ignorance. He longs for the return of the old gods and the old ways, but he knows that they are gone forever.

The poem is rich in symbolism and imagery, drawing on the mythology and folklore of Ireland. The Land of Youth, where Oisin lived with Niamh, is a mythical place, a land of eternal youth and beauty. It represents the ideal of youth and love, which Oisin longs to recapture. However, his return to Ireland represents the passing of time and the inevitability of change. The Land of Youth is a place of myth and fantasy, while Ireland is a place of reality and history.

St. Patrick represents the new Christian era, which replaced the pagan beliefs of Ireland. He is a symbol of the new order, which Oisin sees as a threat to his identity and his connection to his ancestors. Oisin's reluctance to embrace Christianity represents the conflict between the old ways and the new, and the struggle to preserve tradition in the face of change.

The poem is also rich in language and rhythm, reflecting Yeats' mastery of poetic form. The use of repetition, alliteration, and rhyme create a musical quality to the poem, which adds to its emotional impact. The use of archaic language and syntax also adds to the sense of timelessness and mythic quality of the poem.

In conclusion, The Wanderings of Oisin: Book I is a powerful exploration of the themes of love, loss, and the passing of time. It is a journey through time and mythology, drawing on the rich folklore and mythology of Ireland. The poem is a testament to Yeats' mastery of poetic form and his deep understanding of Irish culture and history. It is a timeless work of art that continues to inspire and captivate readers today.

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