With passion and with bardic fire
you shaped a golden past;
weaving from the threads of Time
ancient stories, ancient rhyme,
you massaged the nation’s ego
with visions which would last.
Yeats, your poet’s words awoke
the slumbering nation’s heart:
you gave us heroes to admire,
dreams and visions to inspire
the dormant yearnings of the soul:
such is the power of Art.
And yet, is Art the truth,
or merely a well-wrought lie?
By conspiring with your Muse,
our emotions to abuse,
did you stoke the fires of fervour
and cause young men to die?
But what is Truth and what is Art?
what is love or life?
Did you ask those questions when
you picked up paper, picked up pen
and coined a deathless phrase or two
in praise of strife?
And who can blame you ,Willie Yeats,
for what was meant to be?
In truth, you gave the nation pride;
for that , and honour, men have died,
and the Rising’s “terrible beauty”
was Ireland’s destiny.
Bill Fitzsimons