More by W B Yeats
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.
This ebook has been professionally proofread to ensure accuracy and readability on all devices.
W.B. Yeats was an Irish poet who became one of the most prominent figures in 20th century-literature.Yeats' epic poetry earned him the Nobel Prize in 1923.This collection includes the following:
The Wind Among the Reeds
In the Seven Woods
The Green Helmet and Other Poems
The Wild Swans at Coole
Michael Robartes and the Dancer
The Countess Cathleen
The King’s Threshold
At the Hawk’s Well
The Unicorn from the Stars
Cathleen Ni Houlihan
The Celtic Twilight
The Secret Rose
Stories of Red Hanrahan
Reveries over Childhood and Youth
The Trembling of the Veil
Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry
The Land of Heart’s Desire
A Book of Irish Verse
Ideas of Good and Evil
Discoveries: A Volume of Essays
Per Amica Silentia Lunae
“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.
Xist Publishing is a digital-first publisher. Xist Publishing creates books for the touchscreen generation and is dedicated to helping everyone develop a lifetime love of reading, no matter what form it takes
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.
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.
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
beautiful, pleasant, and significant things of this marred and clumsy
world, and to show in a vision something of the face of Ireland to any
of my own people who would look where I bid them. I have therefore
written down accurately and candidly much that I have heard and seen,
and, except by way of commentary, nothing that I have merely imagined.
I have, however, been at no pains to separate my own beliefs from those
of the peasantry, but have rather let my men and women, dhouls and
faeries, go their way unoffended or defended by any argument of mine.
The things a man has heard and seen are threads of life, and if he pull
them carefully from the confused distaff of memory, any who will can
weave them into whatever garments of belief please them best. I too
have woven my garment like another, but I shall try to keep warm in it,
and shall be well content if it do not unbecome me.
Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has
built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out
their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved
daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a little.
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.
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.
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.
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.'