Per Amica Silentia Lunae E-Book

W.b.yeats

• Herausgeber: Interactive Media
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Per Amica Silentia Lunae

Leseprobe

W. B. Yeats

Per Amica

Silentia Lunae

New Edition

LONDON ∙ NEW YORK ∙ TORONTO ∙ SAO PAULO ∙ MOSCOW

PARIS ∙ MADRID ∙ BERLIN ∙ ROME ∙ MEXICO CITY ∙ MUMBAI ∙ SEOUL ∙ DOHA

TOKYO ∙ SYDNEY ∙ CAPE TOWN ∙ AUCKLAND ∙ BEIJING

New Edition

Published by Sovereign Classic

This Edition

First published in 2019

Copyright © 2019 Sovereign Classic

All Rights Reserved.

ISBN: 9781787360020

Contents

PROLOGUE

EGO DOMINUS TUUS

PER AMICA SILENTIA LUNAE

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

My Dear “Maurice”—You will remember that afternoon in Calvados last summer when your black Persian “Minoulooshe,” who had walked behind us for a good mile, heard a wing flutter in a bramble-bush? For a long time we called her endearing names in vain. She seemed resolute to spend her night among the brambles. She had interrupted a conversation, often interrupted before, upon certain thoughts so long habitual that I may be permitted to call them my convictions. When I came back to London my mind ran again and again to those conversations and I could not rest till I had written out in this little book all that I had said or would have said. Read it some day when “Minoulooshe” is asleep.

W. B. YEATS.

May 11, 1917.

EGO DOMINUS TUUS

Hic

On the grey sand beside the shallow stream,

Under your old wind-beaten tower, where still

A lamp burns on above the open book

That Michael Robartes left, you walk in the moon,

And, though you have passed the best of life, still trace,

Enthralled by the unconquerable delusion,

Magical shapes.

Ille

By the help of an image

I call to my own opposite, summon all

That I have handled least, least looked upon.

Hic

And I would find myself and not an image.

Ille

That is our modern hope, and by its light

We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind

And lost the old nonchalance of the hand;

Whether we have chosen chisel, pen, or brush,

We are but critics, or but half create,

Timid, entangled, empty, and abashed,

Lacking the countenance of our friends.

Hic

And yet,

The chief imagination of Christendom,

Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself,

That he has made that hollow face of his

More plain to the mind’s eye than any face

But that of Christ.

Ille

And did he find himself,

Or was the hunger that had made it hollow

A hunger for the apple on the bough

Most out of reach? And is that spectral image

The man that Lapo and that Guido knew?

I think he fashioned from his opposite

An image that might have been a stony face,

Staring upon a Beduin’s horse-hair roof,

From doored and windowed cliff, or half upturned

Among the coarse grass and the camel dung.

He set his chisel to the hardest stone;

Being mocked by Guido for his lecherous life,