Why should I blame her that she filled my days
 With misery, or that she would of late
 Have taught ignorant men most violent ways,
 Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
 Had they but courage equal to desire?
 What could have made her peaceful with a mind
 That nobleness made simple as a fire,
 With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
 That is not natural in an age like this,
 Being high and solitary and most stern?
 Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
 Was there another Troy for her to burn?

Guest poem:

We are studying Yeats’ poetry in our class at the moment, and I dont think I like his work very much; however, this poem made me pause while I was skimming through his book of poems. There is something about this poem- maybe it is the way in which beauty is synonymous to violence and misery, or the inaccesibility of the woman, or her potential for causing so much destruction…which makes the poem quite powerful.

Links

Biography at poem #21

Commentary scattered throughout the several Yeats poems we’ve run - he’s the most frequently run poet on Minstrels, just ahead of Shakespeare and Kipling.