#w. b. yeats

[thefugitivesaint]

Linda Farquharson, 'Demon Cat', ''Irish Fairy and Folk Tales'' compiled by W. B. Yeats, Folio Society 2007

[seraphinesaintclair]

W. B. Yeats, “That The Night Come”

[metamorphesque]

Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, W. B. Yeats

[apocryphics]

W. B. Yeats

[litverve]

" . . . slowly Autumn climbed the golden throne Where sat old Summer fading into song . . . "

W. B. Yeats, from "Mosada: A Dramatic Poem"

[entheognosis]

The visible world is no longer a reality and the unseen world is no longer a dream.

W. B. Yeats

[davidhudson]

W. B. Yeats, June 13, 1865 – January 28, 1939.

[uwmspeccoll]

It' Fine Press Friday!

Coat of Art

Wisconsin artist Mark Brueggeman's work, which I have had the privilege of encountering during my internship in Special Collections, captivates with its distinctive artistic vision. This unique piece of art is a portfolio of broadsides inspired by the poem, A Coat, by W. B. Yeats, the first Irish Nobel laureate in literature.

The portfolio was published in Amherst Junction, Wisconsin, at Brueggeman’s Atelier Vermeil Studio in 2016, printed in an edition of 20 copies with Optima 24 type and intaglio and relief prints on Riverpoint paper, a Strathmore paper made at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point, where Brueggeman taught for many years.

Mark Brueggeman’s work spans a variety of media, a testament to his versatility and skill. His repertoire includes printing, pastels, intaglio and relief printing, letterpress, and drawing in ink, graphite, and pastel. He earned his undergraduate degree in drawing and painting at the Art Institute of Chicago and his graduate degree in drawing and fiber sculpture at Southern Illinois University at Edwardsville.

Written in 1912, A Coat reflects a period in Yeats’ life when he was attempting to change his writing style. He experimented with various techniques and approaches, constantly striving to enrich and expand his writing. As a result, his poetry underwent numerous transformations, ultimately leading to the creation of his unique voice and style. When it comes to the poem’s meaning, it could refer to anything from Yeats’ own writing style to the futility of war or perhaps something else entirely. One of the most extraordinary things about poetry is that it is open to interpretation, allowing each reader to find their own meaning in the words.

-Melissa, Special Collections Classics Intern.

[derangedrhythms]

[…] when ted and I begin living together we shall become a team better than mr. & mrs. yeats—he being a competent astrologist, reading horoscopes, & me being a tarot-pack reader and, when we have enough money, a crystal-gazer.

Sylvia Plath, The Letters of Sylvia Plath Volume I: 1940–1956 ⁠— Aurelia Schober Plath, 23rd October 1956

[ardent-reflections]

And a softness came from the starlight and filled me to the bone.

W. B. Yeats

[seemoreandmore]

"Our daily life has fallen among prosaic things and ignoble things, but our dreams remember the enchanted valleys.

–W. B. Yeats, Uncollected Prose of W. B. Yeats, Volume 2

[seraphinesaintclair]

W. B. Yeats, “The Song Of Wandering Aengus”

[metamorphesque]

Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, W. B. Yeats Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

[angeloftheodd]

“Wine comes in at the mouth

and love comes in at the eye;

That’s all we shall know for truth

before we grow old and die.

I lift the glass to my mouth,

I look at you, and I sigh.”

- “A Drinking Song” by W. B. Yeats 🖤

Happy St. Patrick’s Day! 🍀

🍒 My Instagram (angel0fthe0dd) 🍒

🫐 My Xitter (GhiaWasHere) 🫐

[litverve]

"The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky;"

W. B. Yeats, from "The Wild Swans at Coole"

[las-microfisuras]

“Tus ojos que antaño nunca se cansaron de los míos,

Se inclinan hoy con pesar bajo tus párpados oscilantes

Porque nuestro amor declina”.

Y responde ella:

“Aunque nuestro amor se desvanezca,

Permanezcamos junto al borde solitario de este lago,

Juntos en este momento especial

En el que la pasión -pobre criatura cansada- cae dormida.

¡Qué lejanas parecen las estrellas,

Y qué lejano nuestro primer beso,

Y qué viejo parece mi corazón!”.

Pensativos caminan por entre marchitas hojas,

Mientras él, lentamente, sosteniendo la mano de ella, replica:

“La pasión ha consumido con frecuencia

Nuestros errantes corazones”.

Los bosques les rodeaban, y las hojas ya amarillas

Caían en la penumbra como desvaídos meteoros,

Entonces un animalillo viejo y cojo renqueó camino abajo.

Sobre él cae el otoño; y ahora ambos se detienen

A la orilla del solitario lago una vez más.

Volviéndose, vio que ella había arrojado unas hojas muertas,

Húmedas como sus ojos y en silencio recogidas

Sobre su pecho y su pelo.

“No te lamentes -dijo él- que estamos cansados

Porque otros amores nos esperan,

Odiemos y amemos a través del tiempo imperturbable;

Ante nosotros yace la eternidad,

Nuestras almas son amor y un continuo adiós”.

- W. B. Yeats. Versión de Luis Zalamea