The Celtic Twilight E-Book

W.b.yeats

• Herausgeber: W. B. Yeats
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

William Butler Yeats ( 13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939) was an Irish poet and one of the foremost figures of 20th-century literature.Rooted in myth, occult mysteries, and belief in magic, these stories are populated by a lively cast of sorcerers, fairies, ghosts, and nature spirits. The great Irish poet heard these enchanting, mystical tales from Irish peasants, and the stories' anthropologic significance is matched by their timeless entertainment value.

Leseprobe

The Celtic Twilight

by

William Butler Yeats

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The Hosting of the Sidhe

This Book

A Teller of Tales

Belief and Unbelief

Mortal Help

A Visionary

Village Ghosts

“Dust hath closed Helen’s eye”

A Knight of the Sheep

An Enduring Heart

The Sorcerers

The Devil

Happy and Unhappy Theologians

The last Gleeman

Regina, Regina Pigmeorum, Veni

“And fair, fierce women”

Enchanted Woods

Miraculous Creatures

Aristotle of the Books

The Swine of the Gods

A Voice

Kidnappers

The Untiring Ones

Earth, Fire and Water

The old Town

The man and his Boots

A Coward

The three O’Byrnes and the Evil Faeries

Drumcliff and Rosses

The Thick Skull of the Fortunate

The Religion of a Sailor

Concerning the Nearness together of Heaven, Earth, and Purgatory

The Eaters of Precious Stones

Our Lady of the Hills

The Golden Age

A Remonstrance with Scotsmen for having Soured the Disposition of their Ghosts and Faeries

War

The Queen and the Fool

The Friends of the People of Faery

Dreams that have no Moral

By the Roadside

Into the Twilight

Time drops in decay

Like a candle burnt out.

And the mountains and woods

Have their day, have their day;

But, kindly old rout

Of the fire-born moods,

You pass not away.

The Hosting of the Sidhe

The host is riding from Knocknarea,

And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;

Caolte tossing his burning hair,

And Niamh calling, “Away, come away;

Empty your heart of its mortal dream.

The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,

Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,

Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,

Our arms are waving, our lips are apart,

And if any gaze on our rushing band,

We come between him and the deed of his hand,

We come between him and the hope of his heart.”

The host is rushing ’twixt night and day;

And where is there hope or deed as fair?

Caolte tossing his burning hair,

And Niamh calling, “Away, come away.”

This Book

1

I have desired, like every artist, to create a little world out of the beautiful, pleasant, and significant things of this marred and clumsy world, and to show in a vision something of the face of Ireland to any of my own people who would look where I bid them. I have therefore written down accurately and candidly much that I have heard and seen, and, except by way of commentary, nothing that I have merely imagined. I have, however, been at no pains to separate my own beliefs from those of the peasantry, but have rather let my men and women, dhouls and faeries, go their way unoffended or defended by any argument of mine. The things a man has heard and seen are threads of life, and if he pull them carefully from the confused distaff of memory, any who will can weave them into whatever garments of belief please them best. I too have woven my garment like another, but I shall try to keep warm in it, and shall be well content if it do not unbecome me.