'The Tower' by William Butler Yeats

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SAILING TO BYZANTIUM
I

THAT is no country for old men.The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
-- Those dying generations -- at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out Of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

WHAT shall I do with this absurdity --
O heart, O troubled heart -- this caricature,
Decrepit age that has been tied to me
As to a dog's tail?
Never had I more
Excited, passionate, fantastical
Imagination, nor an ear and eye
That more expected the impossible --
No, not in boyhood when with rod and fly,
Or the humbler worm, I climbed Ben Bulben's back
And had the livelong summer day to spend.
It seems that I must bid the Muse go pack,
Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend
Until imagination, ear and eye,
Can be content with argument and deal
In abstract things; or be derided by
A sort of battered kettle at the heel.
I pace upon the battlements and stare
On the foundations of a house, or where
Tree, like a sooty finger, starts from the earth;
And send imagination forth
Under the day's declining beam, and call
Images and memories
From ruin or from ancient trees,
For I would ask a question of them all.
Beyond that ridge lived Mrs.French, and once
When every silver candlestick or sconce
Lit up the dark mahogany and the wine.
A serving-man, that could divine
That most respected lady's every wish,
Ran and with the garden shears
Clipped an insolent farmer's ears
And brought them in a little covered dish.
Some few remembered still when I was young
A peasant girl commended by a Song,
Who'd lived somewhere upon that rocky place,
And praised the colour of her face,
And had the greater joy in praising her,
Remembering that, if walked she there,
Farmers jostled at the fair
So great a glory did the song confer.
And certain men, being maddened by those rhymes,
Or else by toasting her a score of times,
Rose from the table and declared it right
To test their fancy by their sight;
But they mistook the brightness of the moon
For the prosaic light of day --
Music had driven their wits astray --
And one was drowned in the great bog of Cloone.
Strange, but the man who made the song was blind;
Yet, now I have considered it, I find
That nothing strange; the tragedy began
With Homer that was a blind man,
And Helen has all living hearts betrayed.
O may the moon and sunlight seem
One inextricable beam,
For if I triumph I must make men mad.
And I myself created Hanrahan
And drove him drunk or sober through the dawn
From somewhere in the neighbouring cottages.
Caught by an old man's juggleries
He stumbled, tumbled, fumbled to and fro
And had but broken knees for hire
And horrible splendour of desire;
I thought it all out twenty years ago:
Good fellows shuffled cards in an old bawn;
And when that ancient ruffian's turn was on
He so bewitched the cards under his thumb
That all but the one card became
A pack of hounds and not a pack of cards,
And that he changed into a hare.
Hanrahan rose in frenzy there
And followed up those baying creatures towards --
O towards I have forgotten what -- enough!
I must recall a man that neither love
Nor music nor an enemy's clipped ear
Could, he was so harried, cheer;
A figure that has grown so fabulous
There's not a neighbour left to say
When he finished his dog's day:
An ancient bankrupt master of this house.
Before that ruin came, for centuries,
Rough men-at-arms, cross-gartered to the knees
Or shod in iron, climbed the narrow stairs,
And certain men-at-arms there were
Whose images, in the Great Memory stored,
Come with loud cry and panting breast
To break upon a sleeper's rest
While their great wooden dice beat on the board.
As I would question all, come all who can;
Come old, necessitous.half-mounted man;
And bring beauty's blind rambling celebrant;
The red man the juggler sent
Through God-forsaken meadows; Mrs.French,
Gifted with so fine an ear;
The man drowned in a bog's mire,
When mocking Muses chose the country wench.
Did all old men and women, rich and poor,
Who trod upon these rocks or passed this door,
Whether in public or in secret rage
As I do now against old age?
But I have found an answer in those eyes
That are impatient to be gone;
Go therefore; but leave Hanrahan,
For I need all his mighty memories.
Old lecher with a love on every wind,
Bring up out of that deep considering mind
All that you have discovered in the grave,
For it is certain that you have
Reckoned up every unforeknown, unseeing
plunge, lured by a softening eye,
Or by a touch or a sigh,
Into the labyrinth of another's being;
Does the imagination dwell the most
Upon a woman won or woman lost.?
If on the lost, admit you turned aside
From a great labyrinth out of pride,
Cowardice, some silly over-subtle thought
Or anything called conscience once;
And that if memory recur, the sun's
Under eclipse and the day blotted out.

III
It is time that I wrote my will;
I choose upstanding men
That climb the streams until
The fountain leap, and at dawn
Drop their cast at the side
Of dripping stone; I declare
They shall inherit my pride,
The pride of people that were
Bound neither to Cause nor to State.
Neither to slaves that were spat on,
Nor to the tyrants that spat,
The people of Burke and of Grattan
That gave, though free to refuse --
pride, like that of the morn,
When the headlong light is loose,
Or that of the fabulous horn,
Or that of the sudden shower
When all streams are dry,
Or that of the hour
When the swan must fix his eye
Upon a fading gleam,
Float out upon a long
Last reach of glittering stream
And there sing his last song.
And I declare my faith:
I mock plotinus' thought
And cry in plato's teeth,
Death and life were not
Till man made up the whole,
Made lock, stock and barrel
Out of his bitter soul,
Aye, sun and moon and star, all,
And further add to that
That, being dead, we rise,
Dream and so create
Translunar paradise.
I have prepared my peace
With learned Italian things
And the proud stones of Greece,
Poet's imaginings
And memories of love,
Memories of the words of women,
All those things whereof
Man makes a superhuman,
Mirror-resembling dream.
As at the loophole there
The daws chatter and scream,
And drop twigs layer upon layer.
When they have mounted up,
The mother bird will rest
On their hollow top,
And so warm her wild nest.
I leave both faith and pride
To young upstanding men
Climbing the mountain-side,
That under bursting dawn
They may drop a fly;
Being of that metal made
Till it was broken by
This sedentary trade.
Now shall I make my soul,
Compelling it to study
In a learned school
Till the wreck of body,
Slow decay of blood,
Testy delirium
Or dull decrepitude,
Or what worse evil come --
The death of friends, or death
Of every brilliant eye
That made a catch in the breath -- .
Seem but the clouds of the sky
When the horizon fades;
Or a bird's sleepy cry
Among the deepening shades.
THE TOWER
I
HDRWHAT shall I do with this absurdity --
O heart, O troubled heart -- this caricature,
Decrepit age that has been tied to me
As to a dog's tail?
Never had I more
Excited, passionate, fantastical
Imagination, nor an ear and eye
That more expected the impossible --
No, not in boyhood when with rod and fly,
Or the humbler worm, I climbed Ben Bulben's back
And had the livelong summer day to spend.
It seems that I must bid the Muse go pack,
Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend
Until imagination, ear and eye,
Can be content with argument and deal
In abstract things; or be derided by
A sort of battered kettle at the heel.
I pace upon the battlements and stare
On the foundations of a house, or where
Tree, like a sooty finger, starts from the earth;
And send imagination forth
Under the day's declining beam, and call
Images and memories
From ruin or from ancient trees,
For I would ask a question of them all.
Beyond that ridge lived Mrs.French, and once
When every silver candlestick or sconce
Lit up the dark mahogany and the wine.
A serving-man, that could divine
That most respected lady's every wish,
Ran and with the garden shears
Clipped an insolent farmer's ears
And brought them in a little covered dish.
Some few remembered still when I was young
A peasant girl commended by a Song,
Who'd lived somewhere upon that rocky place,
And praised the colour of her face,
And had the greater joy in praising her,
Remembering that, if walked she there,
Farmers jostled at the fair
So great a glory did the song confer.
And certain men, being maddened by those rhymes,
Or else by toasting her a score of times,
Rose from the table and declared it right
To test their fancy by their sight;
But they mistook the brightness of the moon
For the prosaic light of day --
Music had driven their wits astray --
And one was drowned in the great bog of Cloone.
Strange, but the man who made the song was blind;
Yet, now I have considered it, I find
That nothing strange; the tragedy began
With Homer that was a blind man,
And Helen has all living hearts betrayed.
O may the moon and sunlight seem
One inextricable beam,
For if I triumph I must make men mad.
And I myself created Hanrahan
And drove him drunk or sober through the dawn
From somewhere in the neighbouring cottages.
Caught by an old man's juggleries
He stumbled, tumbled, fumbled to and fro
And had but broken knees for hire
And horrible splendour of desire;
I thought it all out twenty years ago:
Good fellows shuffled cards in an old bawn;
And when that ancient ruffian's turn was on
He so bewitched the cards under his thumb
That all but the one card became
A pack of hounds and not a pack of cards,
And that he changed into a hare.
Hanrahan rose in frenzy there
And followed up those baying creatures towards --
O towards I have forgotten what -- enough!
I must recall a man that neither love
Nor music nor an enemy's clipped ear
Could, he was so harried, cheer;
A figure that has grown so fabulous
There's not a neighbour left to say
When he finished his dog's day:
An ancient bankrupt master of this house.
Before that ruin came, for centuries,
Rough men-at-arms, cross-gartered to the knees
Or shod in iron, climbed the narrow stairs,
And certain men-at-arms there were
Whose images, in the Great Memory stored,
Come with loud cry and panting breast
To break upon a sleeper's rest
While their great wooden dice beat on the board.
As I would question all, come all who can;
Come old, necessitous.half-mounted man;
And bring beauty's blind rambling celebrant;
The red man the juggler sent
Through God-forsaken meadows; Mrs.French,
Gifted with so fine an ear;
The man drowned in a bog's mire,
When mocking Muses chose the country wench.
Did all old men and women, rich and poor,
Who trod upon these rocks or passed this door,
Whether in public or in secret rage
As I do now against old age?
But I have found an answer in those eyes
That are impatient to be gone;
Go therefore; but leave Hanrahan,
For I need all his mighty memories.
Old lecher with a love on every wind,
Bring up out of that deep considering mind
All that you have discovered in the grave,
For it is certain that you have
Reckoned up every unforeknown, unseeing
plunge, lured by a softening eye,
Or by a touch or a sigh,
Into the labyrinth of another's being;
Does the imagination dwell the most
Upon a woman won or woman lost.?
If on the lost, admit you turned aside
From a great labyrinth out of pride,
Cowardice, some silly over-subtle thought
Or anything called conscience once;
And that if memory recur, the sun's
Under eclipse and the day blotted out.
III
It is time that I wrote my will;
I choose upstanding men
That climb the streams until
The fountain leap, and at dawn
Drop their cast at the side
Of dripping stone; I declare
They shall inherit my pride,
The pride of people that were
Bound neither to Cause nor to State.
Neither to slaves that were spat on,
Nor to the tyrants that spat,
The people of Burke and of Grattan
That gave, though free to refuse --
pride, like that of the morn,
When the headlong light is loose,
Or that of the fabulous horn,
Or that of the sudden shower
When all streams are dry,
Or that of the hour
When the swan must fix his eye
Upon a fading gleam,
Float out upon a long
Last reach of glittering stream
And there sing his last song.
And I declare my faith:
I mock plotinus' thought
And cry in plato's teeth,
Death and life were not
Till man made up the whole,
Made lock, stock and barrel
Out of his bitter soul,
Aye, sun and moon and star, all,
And further add to that
That, being dead, we rise,
Dream and so create
Translunar paradise.
I have prepared my peace
With learned Italian things
And the proud stones of Greece,
Poet's imaginings
And memories of love,
Memories of the words of women,
All those things whereof
Man makes a superhuman,
Mirror-resembling dream.
As at the loophole there
The daws chatter and scream,
And drop twigs layer upon layer.
When they have mounted up,
The mother bird will rest
On their hollow top,
And so warm her wild nest.
I leave both faith and pride
To young upstanding men
Climbing the mountain-side,
That under bursting dawn
They may drop a fly;
Being of that metal made
Till it was broken by
This sedentary trade.
Now shall I make my soul,
Compelling it to study
In a learned school
Till the wreck of body,
Slow decay of blood,
Testy delirium
Or dull decrepitude,
Or what worse evil come --
The death of friends, or death
Of every brilliant eye
That made a catch in the breath -- .
Seem but the clouds of the sky
When the horizon fades;
Or a bird's sleepy cry
Among the deepening shades.

Editor 1 Interpretation

A Tower of Poetic Ambiguity: An In-Depth Analysis of Yeats' The Tower

William Butler Yeats' The Tower is a collection of 15 poems that were published in 1928, marking a turning point in his poetic career. This collection is widely considered to be one of his greatest works, and it is no wonder why - Yeats' mastery of language and poetic form is on full display in each and every poem.

At the heart of The Tower lies a theme of ambiguity and uncertainty, a reflection of the tumultuous time in which Yeats was living. In this literary criticism and interpretation, we will delve deep into the complex layers of meaning and symbolism in The Tower, exploring the ways in which Yeats grapples with the elusive nature of truth and the human experience.

The Tower: An Introduction

The Tower opens with the poem "Sailing to Byzantium," a masterpiece of literary craftsmanship that sets the tone for the entire collection. In this poem, Yeats expresses his longing for a timeless, ideal world free from the corruption and decay of the physical world. The speaker of the poem yearns to transform himself into a work of art, a golden bird that will never die.

This theme of immortality and transcendence is present throughout The Tower, as Yeats grapples with the transience of human life and the search for something eternal. The Tower itself becomes a symbol of this quest, representing both the physical structure that dominates the landscape and the metaphorical tower of human ambition and achievement.

The Tower as Symbol

The symbol of the tower is present in nearly every poem in the collection, taking on a variety of meanings and associations. In "The Tower," Yeats uses the tower as a symbol of spiritual aspiration and the search for enlightenment, a theme that is echoed in "The Magi" and "The Three Bushes."

In "Leda and the Swan," the tower becomes a symbol of power and domination, as the swan takes advantage of Leda's vulnerability to assert his dominance over her. This theme of power and control is present in many of the poems in The Tower, including "The Statues" and "Two Songs from a Play."

Ultimately, the symbol of the tower represents the human quest for meaning and purpose in a world that often seems chaotic and meaningless. Yeats uses the tower as a way of exploring these themes and the various ways in which humans seek to make sense of their existence.

The Ambiguity of Truth

One of the most striking features of The Tower is its ambiguity and uncertainty. Yeats presents a world that is filled with contradictions and paradoxes, challenging the reader to grapple with complex ideas and conflicting emotions.

In "The Tower," for example, Yeats explores the idea of truth and its elusive nature. The speaker of the poem suggests that truth is something that is constantly shifting and changing, and that it is ultimately unattainable. This theme is echoed in "The Wheel" and "The Tower of Circe," where Yeats grapples with the idea of truth as a source of both enlightenment and confusion.

The Tower also explores the idea of the human experience as a journey of self-discovery and transformation. In "The Gyres," Yeats presents an image of the universe as a series of ever-expanding circles, each representing a different stage of human consciousness. This theme of transformation is present in many of the poems in the collection, including "The Coming of Wisdom with Time" and "The Tower."

Yeats' Mastery of Language and Form

One of the most impressive aspects of The Tower is Yeats' mastery of language and poetic form. Each poem is crafted with precision and care, with every line and stanza contributing to the overall theme and meaning.

In "Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen," Yeats uses a complex system of allusions and references to create a poem that is both timeless and topical. The poem explores the chaos and upheaval of the post-World War I world, while also drawing on mythological and historical references to create a layered and complex work of art.

Similarly, "Leda and the Swan" uses a complex system of symbolism and metaphor to explore the themes of power and control. The poem draws on the myth of Leda and the Swan to create a powerful and provocative image of sexual violence and domination.

Conclusion

In conclusion, The Tower is a masterpiece of modernist poetry that explores the complex themes of truth, transformation, and the human experience. Yeats' mastery of language and poetic form is on full display in each and every poem, creating a collection that is both beautiful and thought-provoking.

The symbol of the tower runs throughout the collection, representing the human quest for meaning and purpose in a chaotic and uncertain world. The ambiguity of truth and the complexity of the human experience are explored in depth, challenging the reader to grapple with complex ideas and emotions.

Overall, The Tower is a work of art that stands the test of time, continuing to inspire and provoke readers nearly a century after its initial publication.

Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation

The Tower: A Masterpiece of William Butler Yeats

William Butler Yeats is one of the most celebrated poets of the 20th century. His works are known for their profound symbolism, mysticism, and spiritualism. Among his many masterpieces, The Tower stands out as a remarkable work of art that captures the essence of Yeats' poetic genius.

The Tower is a collection of poems that Yeats wrote between 1912 and 1928. It is named after Thoor Ballylee, a medieval tower in County Galway, Ireland, that Yeats purchased in 1917 and used as a summer home. The poems in The Tower are deeply personal and reflect Yeats' spiritual and philosophical beliefs.

The Tower is divided into two parts. The first part contains poems that deal with Yeats' personal life, his relationships, and his struggles with aging and mortality. The second part contains poems that deal with Yeats' spiritual and philosophical beliefs, his fascination with mythology and the occult, and his vision of a new age.

The first poem in The Tower, "Sailing to Byzantium," is one of Yeats' most famous works. It is a meditation on aging and mortality, and a plea for transcendence. The poem begins with the speaker describing his journey to Byzantium, a city that represents the eternal and the timeless. The speaker longs to escape the decay and impermanence of the physical world and to achieve a state of spiritual immortality.

The second poem in The Tower, "Leda and the Swan," is a retelling of the Greek myth of Leda and the Swan. In the myth, Zeus takes the form of a swan and seduces Leda, the wife of King Tyndareus. The poem is a powerful exploration of the themes of power, violence, and sexuality. The swan is a symbol of male power and aggression, while Leda represents female vulnerability and passivity.

The third poem in The Tower, "The Tower," is a meditation on the nature of creativity and the role of the artist in society. The tower is a symbol of the artist's isolation and his struggle to create something of lasting value. The poem is a reflection on Yeats' own artistic journey and his belief in the power of art to transform society.

The fourth poem in The Tower, "Meditations in Time of Civil War," is a powerful commentary on the political turmoil of Yeats' time. The poem is a reflection on the violence and chaos of the Irish Civil War and a plea for peace and reconciliation. The poem is a reminder that even in times of great turmoil, there is still hope for a better future.

The fifth poem in The Tower, "Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen," is a prophetic vision of the coming of a new age. The poem is a reflection on the political and social upheavals of Yeats' time and a plea for a new spiritual awakening. The poem is a reminder that even in times of great darkness, there is still the possibility of renewal and transformation.

The Tower is a masterpiece of modern poetry. It is a testament to Yeats' poetic genius and his deep spiritual and philosophical beliefs. The poems in The Tower are timeless and universal, and they continue to inspire and challenge readers today.

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