And how we love the really great ones for being soft in the head like that, neurasthenic even, connecting nothing with nothing. How they expose us and redeem us, and make us whole.
I went there from a neighbouring country-house, and, arriving a little before the players, tried to open a window.
My hands were black with dirt in a moment, and presently a pane of glass and a part of the window-frame came out in my hands. It had been built by some romantic or philanthropic landlord some three or four generations ago, and was a memory of we knew not what unfinished scheme.
He lived in a high house with other priests, and as I went in I noticed with a whimsical pleasure a broken pane of glass in the fanlight over the door, for he had once told me the story of an old woman who a good many years ago quarrelled with the bishop, got drunk and hurled a stone through the painted glass.
He was a clever man who read Meredith and Ibsen, but some of his books had been packed in the fire-grate by his housekeeper, instead of the customary view of an Italian lake or the coloured tissue-paper. The players, who had been giving a performance in a neighbouring town, had not yet come, or were unpacking their costumes and properties at the hotel he had recommended them.
We should have time, he said, to go through the half-ruined town and to visit the convent schools and the cathedral, where, owing to his influence, two of our young Irish sculptors had been set to carve an altar and the heads of pillars.
The new movement had seized on the cathedral midway in its growth, and the worst of the old and the best of the new were side by side without any sign of transition. The convent school was, as other like places have been to me—a long room in a workhouse hospital at Portumna, in particular—a delight to the imagination and the eyes.
A new floor had been put into some ecclesiastical building and the light from a great mullioned window, cut off at the middle, fell aslant upon rows of clean and seemingly happy children.
The nuns, who show in their own convents, where they can put what they like, a love of what is mean and pretty, make beautiful rooms where the regulations compel them to do all with a few colours and a few flowers.
A good many of our audience, when the curtain went up in the old ball-room, were drunk, but all were attentive, for they had a great deal of respect for my friend, and there were other priests there.
Presently the man at  the door opposite to the stage strayed off somewhere and I took his place, and when boys came up offering two or three pence and asking to be let into the sixpenny seats, I let them join the melancholy crowd. The play professed to tell of the heroic life of ancient Ireland, but was really full of sedentary refinement and the spirituality of cities.
Every emotion was made as dainty-footed and dainty-fingered as might be, and a love and pathos where passion had faded into sentiment, emotions of pensive and harmless people, drove shadowy young men through the shadows of death and battle.
I watched it with growing rage. It was not my own work, but I have sometimes watched my own work with a rage made all the more salt in the mouth from being half despair. Why should we make so much noise about ourselves and yet have nothing to say that was not better said in that workhouse dormitory, where a few flowers and a few coloured counterpanes and the coloured walls had made a severe and gracious beauty?
Presently the play was changed and our comedian began to act a little farce, and when I saw him struggle to wake into laughter an audience, out of whom the life had run as if it were water, I rejoiced, as I had over that broken window-pane.
Here was  something secular, abounding, even a little vulgar, for he was gagging horribly, condescending to his audience, though not without contempt.
I had my breakfast by myself the next morning, for the players had got up in the middle of the night and driven some ten miles to catch an early train to Dublin, and were already on their way to their shops and offices.
Nobody had thought it worth his while to tear out the page  or block out the lines, and as I put the book away impressions that had been drifting through my mind for months rushed up into a single thought. The English have driven away the kings, and turned the prophets into demagogues, and you cannot have health among a people if you have not prophet, priest and king.
Chapter 7: Black Hills, White Snow "Good news, Snape," Harry announced triumphantly, returning to the shack in the morning. "You've been appointed ambassador to the magical community in Hong Kong," Snape filled in the blank. William Butler Yeats Collection Type of Material: Photocopies of microfilmed manuscripts and microfilm reels of: correspondence, documents, printed materials, memorabilia, music, drawings, sketches, still pictures, and portraits of William Butler Yeats, his family, and his friends. O Scribd é o maior site social de leitura e publicação do mundo.
In England, where there have been so many changing activities and so much systematic  education, one only escapes from crudities and temporary interests among students, but here there is the right audience could one but get its ears. I have always come to this certainty: They have not much to do with the speculations of science, though they have a little, or with the speculations of metaphysics, though they have a little.A Man Young And Old: Vi.
His Memories by William Butler Yeats.. We should be hidden from their eyes Being but holy shows And bodies broken like a thorn Whereon the bleak north blows To think of buried Hector And.
Sailing to Byzantium by William Butler Yeats Words | 3 Pages. poem, Sailing to Byzantium by William Butler Yeats, is an in depth look at the journeys of one man who wishes to escape the confinements of old age by pursuing a society in which artistic beauty and expression reign supreme.
The large white owl that with eye is blind, That hath sate for years in the old tree hollow, Is carried away in a gust of wind.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning Eye, Years, Wind. The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Collected Works in Verse and Prose of William Butler Yeats, Vol. 8 (of 8), by William Butler Yeats This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere. O Scribd é o maior site social de leitura e publicação do mundo.
When thumbing through the May issue of the Ladies Home Journal, I read a short column about Mother’s Day Gifts. The opinions expressed were focused on gifts from children for their moms.