Lose yourself in these supernatural tales of mischievous fairies, changelings, mysterious merrows, solitary leprechauns, shape-changing pookas, wailing banshees, ghosts, dangerous witches, helpful fairy doctors, and massive giants!
W. B. Yeats compiled sixty-four works from numerous Irish authors including William Allingham; Thomas Crofton Croker; William Carleton; Letitia Maclintock; Lady Wilde, mother of Oscar Wilde; and Yeats himself, resulting in a comprehensive and definitive collection. Each section features an introduction from Yeats to enlighten readers on the background of its mythical subjects and their role in Irish life and culture.
Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry includes “The Fairies,” “Frank Martin and the Fairies,” “The Priest’s Supper,” “The Stolen Child,” “The Soul Cages,” “Far Darrig in Donegal,” “The Piper and the Puca,” “A Lamentation for the Death of Sir Maurice Fitzgerald,” “The Black Lamb,” “The Horned Women,” “The Phantom Isle,” and more.
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The Tower was W. B. Yeats's first major collection of poetry as Nobel Laureate after the receiving the Nobel Prize in 1923. It is considered to be one of his most influential collections. The title refers to Thoor Ballylee Castle, a Norman tower that Yeats purchased in 1917 and later restored. The Tower includes some of his greatest and most innovative poems including 'Sailing to Byzantium', a lyrical meditation on man's disillusionment with the physical world; 'Leda and the Swan', a violent and graphic take on the Greek myth of Leda and Zeus and 'Among School Children', a poetic contemplation of life, love and the creative process.
All are present in this volume, which reproduces the 1933 edition of W. B. Yeats's Collected Poems and also contains an illuminating introduction by author and academic Dr Robert Mighall.
Designed to appeal to the booklover, the Macmillan Collector's Library is a series of beautiful gift editions of much loved classic titles. Macmillan Collector's Library are books to love and treasure.
“One loses, as one grows older, something of the lightness of one's dreams; one begins to take life up in both hands, and to care more for the fruit than the flower, and that is no great loss perhaps.” - W.B. Yeats, The Celtic Twilight
The Celtic Twilight by W. B. Yeats is an extensive collection of Irish lore from old fairy tales to anecdotes and even essays that clearly depict the Irish culture. Before the Dawn of Human Kind, the Druids walked on our lands constantly trying to find the perfect balance with the forces of nature. Fairies, spirits and leprechauns were among those untamed forces.
This Xist Classics edition has been professionally formatted for e-readers with a linked table of contents. This ebook also contains a bonus book club leadership guide and discussion questions. We hope you’ll share this book with your friends, neighbors and colleagues and can’t wait to hear what you have to say about it.
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* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Yeats' life and works
* Concise introductions to the poetry and other works
* Ten poetry collections – the most poems possible due to US copyright restrictions
* Images of how the poetry books were first printed, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
* Excellent formatting of the poems and plays
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* 19 plays, including rare dramas appearing for the first time in digital print
* Features two autobiographies - discover Yeats' literary life
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres
Please note: to comply with US copyright restrictions, poetry collections, plays and autobiographical works published after 1922 cannot appear in this volume. Once these later works enter the US public domain, they will be added as a free update to the eBook.
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The Poetry Collections
THE WANDERINGS OF OISIN AND OTHER POEMS
THE COUNTESS KATHLEEN AND VARIOUS LEGENDS AND LYRICS
THE WIND AMONG THE REEDS
Poems from THE SHADOWY WATERS
TWO NARRATIVE POEMS
IN THE SEVEN WOODS
THE GREEN HELMET AND OTHER POEMS
THE WILD SWANS AT COOLE
MICHAEL ROBARTES AND THE DANCER
LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN
THE LAND OF HEART’S DESIRE
DIARMUID AND GRANIA
WHERE THERE IS NOTHING
CATHLEEN NI HOULIHAN
THE POT OF BROTH
THE KING’S THRESHOLD
ON BAILE’S STRAND
THE UNICORN FROM THE STARS
THE GREEN HELMET
THE SHADOWY WATERS
THE HOUR-GLASS (VERSE VERSION)
AT THE HAWK’S WELL
THE DREAMING OF THE BONES
THE ONLY JEALOUSY OF EMER
THE PLAYER QUEEN
REVERIES OVER CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH
THE TREMBLING OF THE VEIL
From the 'Deserted Village'
In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs—and God has given my share—
I still had hopes my later hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close
And keep the flame from wasting by repose;
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return—and die at home at last.
The Church when it was most powerful taught learned and unlearned to climb, as it were, to the great moral realities through hierarchies of Cherubim and Seraphim, through clouds of Saints and Angels who had all their precise duties and privileges. The story-tellers of Ireland, perhaps of every primitive country, imagined as fine a fellowship, only it was to the æsthetic realities they would have had us climb. They created for learned and unlearned alike, a communion of heroes, a cloud of stalwart witnesses; but because they were as much excited as a monk over his prayers, they did not think sufficiently about the shape of the poem and the story. We have to get a little weary or a little distrustful of our subject, perhaps, before we can lie awake thinking how to make the most of it. They were more anxious to describe energetic characters, and to invent beautiful stories, than to express themselves with perfect dramatic logic or in perfectly-ordered words. They shared their characters and their stories, their very images, with one another, and handed them down from generation to generation; for nobody, even when he had added some new trait, or some new incident, thought of claiming for himself what so obviously lived its own merry or mournful life. The maker of images or worker in mosaic who first put Christ upon a cross would have as soon claimed as his own a thought which was perhaps put into his mind by Christ himself. The Irish poets had also, it may be, what seemed a supernatural sanction, for a chief poet had to understand not only innumerable kinds of poetry, but how to keep himself for nine days in a trance. Surely they believed or half believed in the historical reality of even their wildest imaginations. And so soon as Christianity made their hearers desire a chronology that would run side by side with that of the Bible, they delighted in arranging their Kings and Queens, the shadows of forgotten mythologies, in long lines that ascended to Adam and his Garden.
A selection of nineteen myths and legends, carefully selected and curated from the author's book, Folk and Fairy Tales of Ireland.
These classic stories are enchanting portrayals of people from the Otherworld - tales of witches, fairies, giants, pixies and hobgoblins. Told with humour and warmth, and drawing on the glorious storytelling tradition of Ireland, this is the perfect book and gift for anyone who welcomes magic into their life . . .
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.
At the end of the eighties my father and mother, my brother and sisters and myself, all newly arrived from Dublin, were settled in Bedford Park in a red-brick house with several wood mantlepieces copied from marble mantlepieces by the brothers Adam, a balcony, and a little garden shadowed by a great horse-chestnut tree. Years before we had lived there, when the crooked, ostentatiously picturesque streets, with great trees casting great shadows, had been anew enthusiasm: the Pre-Raphaelite movement at last affecting life. But now exaggerated criticism had taken the place of enthusiasm; the tiled roofs, the first in modern London, were said to leak, which they did not, and the drains to be bad, though that was no longer true; and I imagine that houses were cheap. I remember feeling disappointed because the co-operative stores, with their little seventeenth century panes, were so like any common shop; and because the public house, called 'The Tabard' after Chaucer's Inn, was so plainly a common public house; and because the great sign of a trumpeter designed by Rooke, the Pre-Raphaelite artist, had been freshened by some inferior hand. The big red-brick church had never pleased me, and I was accustomed, when I saw the wooden balustrade that ran along the slanting edge of the roof, where nobody ever walked or could walk, to remember the opinion of some architect friend of my father's, that it had been put there to keep the birds from falling off. Still, however, it had some village characters and helped us to feel not wholly lost in the metropolis. I no longer went to church as a regular habit, but go I sometimes did, for one Sunday morning I saw these words painted on a board in the porch: 'The congregation are requested to kneel during prayers; the kneelers are afterwards to be hung upon pegs provided for the purpose.' In front of every seat hung a little cushion, and these cushions were called 'kneelers.' Presently the joke ran through the community, where there were many artists, who considered religion at best an unimportant accessory to good architecture and who disliked that particular church.
At the end of the ’eighties my father and mother, my brother and sisters and myself, all newly arrived from Dublin, were settled in Bedford Park in a red-brick house with several mantelpieces of wood, copied from marble mantelpieces designed by the brothers Adam, a balcony and a little garden shadowed by a great horse-chestnut tree. Years before we had lived there, when the crooked ostentatiously picturesque streets with great trees casting great shadows had been a new enthusiasm: the Pre-Raphaelite movement at last affecting life. But now exaggerated criticism had taken the place of enthusiasm, the tiled roofs, the first in modern London, were said to leak, which they did not, and the drains to be bad, though that was no longer true; and I imagine that houses were cheap. I remember feeling disappointed because the co-operative stores, with their little seventeenth century panes, had lost the romance they had when I had passed them still unfinished on my way to school; and because the public house, called The Tabard after Chaucer’s Inn, was so plainly a common public house; and because the great sign of a trumpeter designed by Rooke, the Pre-Raphaelite artist, had been freshened by some inferior hand. The big red-brick church had never pleased me, and I was accustomed, when I saw the wooden balustrade that ran along the slanting edge of the roof where nobody ever walked or could walk, to remember the opinion of some architect friend of my father’s, that it had been put there to keep the birds from falling off. Still, however, it had some village characters and helped us to feel not wholly lost in the metropolis. I no longer went to church as a regular habit, but go I sometimes did, for one Sunday morning I saw these words painted on a board in the porch: “The congregation are requested to kneel during prayers; the kneelers are afterwards to be hung upon pegs provided for the purpose.” In front of every seat hung a little cushion and these cushions were called “kneelers.” Presently the joke ran through the community, where there were many artists who considered religion at best an unimportant accessory to good architecture and who disliked that particular church.
Dr. Corbett, Bishop of Oxford and Norwich, lamented long ago the departure of the English fairies. "In Queen Mary's time" he wrote—
"When Tom came home from labour, Or Cis to milking rose, Then merrily, merrily went their tabor, And merrily went their toes."
But now, in the times of James, they had all gone, for "they were of the old profession," and "their songs were Ave Maries." In Ireland they are still extant, giving gifts to the kindly, and plaguing the surly. "Have you ever seen a fairy or such like?" I asked an old man in County Sligo. "Amn't I annoyed with them," was the answer. "Do the fishermen along here know anything of the mermaids?" I asked a woman of a village in County Dublin. "Indeed, they don't like to see them at all," she answered, "for they always bring bad weather." "Here is a man who believes in ghosts," said a foreign sea-captain, pointing to a pilot of my acquaintance. "In every house over there," said the pilot, pointing to his native village of Rosses, "there are several." Certainly that now old and much respected dogmatist, the Spirit of the Age, has in no manner made his voice heard down there. In a little while, for he has gotten a consumptive appearance of late, he will be covered over decently in his grave, and another will grow, old and much respected, in his place, and never be heard of down there, and after him another and another and another. Indeed, it is a question whether any of these personages will ever be heard of outside the newspaper offices and lecture-rooms and drawing-rooms and eel-pie houses of the cities, or if the Spirit of the Age is at any time more than a froth. At any rate, whole troops of their like will not change the Celt much. Giraldus Cambrensis found the people of the western islands a trifle paganish. "How many gods are there?" asked a priest, a little while ago, of a man from the Island of Innistor. "There is one on Innistor; but this seems a big place," said the man, and the priest held up his hands in horror, as Giraldus had, just seven centuries before.
Hanrahan, the hedge schoolmaster, a tall, strong, red-haired young man, came into the barn where some of the men of the village were sitting on Samhain Eve. It had been a dwelling-house, and when the man that owned it had built a better one, he had put the two rooms together, and kept it for a place to store one thing or another. There was a fire on the old hearth, and there were dip candles stuck in bottles, and there was a black quart bottle upon some boards that had been put across two barrels to make a table. Most of the men were sitting beside the fire, and one of them was singing a long wandering song, about a Munster man and a Connaught man that were quarrelling about their two provinces.
Hanrahan went to the man of the house and said, 'I got your message'; but when he had said that, he stopped, for an old mountainy man that had a shirt and trousers of unbleached flannel, and that was sitting by himself near the door, was looking at him, and moving an old pack of cards about in his hands and muttering. 'Don't mind him,' said the man of the house; 'he is only some stranger came in awhile ago, and we bade him welcome, it being Samhain night, but I think he is not in his right wits. Listen to him now and you will hear what he is saying.'
In the west of Ireland, on the 9th of December, in the town of Ballah, in the Imperial Hotel there was a single guest, clerical and youthful. With the exception of a stray commercial traveller, who stopped once for a night, there had been nobody for a whole month but this guest, and now he was thinking of going away. The town, full enough in summer of trout and salmon fishers, slept all winter like the bears.
On the evening of the 9th of December, in the coffee-room of the Imperial Hotel, there was nobody but this guest. The guest was irritated. It had rained all day, and now that it was clearing up night had almost fallen. He had packed his portmanteau: his stockings, his clothes-brush, his razor, his dress shoes were each in their corner, and now he had nothing to do. He had tried the paper that was lying on the table. He did not agree with its politics.
The waiter was playing an accordion in a little room over the stairs. The guest’s irritation increased, for the more he thought about it the more he perceived that the accordion was badly played. There was a piano in the coffee-room; he sat down at it and played the tune correctly, as loudly as possible. The waiter took no notice. He did not know that he was being played for. He was wholly absorbed in his own playing, and besides he was old, obstinate, and deaf. The guest could stand it no longer. He rang for the waiter, and then, remembering that he did not need anything, went out before he came.
The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine and fifty swans.
The nineteenth Autumn has come upon me Since I first made my count; I saw, before I had well finished, All suddenly mount And scatter wheeling in great broken rings Upon their clamorous wings.
I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, And now my heart is sore. All's changed since I, hearing at twilight, The first time on this shore, The bell-beat of their wings above my head, Trod with a lighter tread.
Unwearied still, lover by lover, They paddle in the cold, Companionable streams or climb the air; Their hearts have not grown old; Passion or conquest, wander where they will, Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water Mysterious, beautiful; Among what rushes will they build, By what lake's edge or pool Delight men's eyes, when I awake some day To find they have flown away?
IN MEMORY OF
MAJOR ROBERT GREGORY
Considerat de critici cea mai bună operă în proză al lui W.B. Yeats, Rosa Alchemica e şi unul dintre textele reprezentative pentru limbajul bogat, dar şi pentru preocupările principale ale scriitorului: cultura irlandeză, miturile şi legendele celtice, magia, alchimia şi misticismul.
Eroii din povestirile lui W. B. Yeats sunt trubaduri, zâne, apariţii fantastice care traversează întreaga mitologie celtică: Hanrahan cel Roşu, menestrel care ştie cântece străvechi, iubita mitică, Oona, pe care o pierde mândrul Costello, bătrânul cavaler al Sfântului Ioan, înţeleptul rege căruia îi cresc în păr penele Vulturului Cenuşiu sau cei trei magi. Sunt şi personaje obişnuite, parte din universul domestic al lumii irlandeze, precum proscrisul care ajunge să fie răstignit pentru că le reproşează călugărilor proasta găzduire. În Rosa Alchemica, un tânăr încearcă să se salveze de fascinaţia pe care o are faţă de ritualurile secrete şi tainele alchimiştilor, dar participarea la o astfel de ceremonie îi deschide de fapt calea de acces către un adevăr esenţial, marcându-i definitiv existenţa. Fie că e vorba despre textele aşa-numit oculte sau despre reinterpretări ale legendelor irlandeze, acelaşi aer de mister şi aceleaşi ritmuri străvechi răzbat din povestirile lui W.B. Yeats.
This sumptuously illustrated book complements the carefully selected works of W.B. Yeats, which include poems, stories, a letter from childhood, and an account of his daughter Anne’s memories of childhood.
Including unpublished work, this gorgeous book draws on Yeats's preoccupation with magic, fairy lore, place, family and childhood. A mystical and magical tone that pervades the collection will enthral younger readers.
Table Of Contents
THE CELTIC TWILIGHT
THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN
THE HOUR-GLASS A MORALITY BY W. B. YEATS
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE BY W. B. YEATS
THE SECRET ROSE:
STORIES OF RED HANRAHAN
SYNGE AND THE IRELAND OF HIS TIME
THE UNICORN FROM THE STARS
This collection of terrifying tales of kidnapping and baby switching include excerpts from William Butler Yeats and T. Crofton Croker.
The magazine mainly consists of a series of essays on the theatre in Dublin, and supplementing these are explanations and discussions of new plays, excerpts from which are often included. This book will be of interest to those with an interest in Yeats, early nineteenth-century literature, and Irish theatre.