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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=537067" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ego Dominus Tuus</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hic. On the grey sand beside the shallow stream<br>Under your old wind-beaten tower, where still<br>A lamp burns on beside the open book<br>That Michael Robartes left, you walk in the moon,<br>And, though you have passed the best of life, still trace,<br>Enthralled by the unconquerable delusion,<br>Magical shapes.<br>Ille. By the help of an image<br>I call to my own opposite, summon all<br>That I have handled least, least looked upon.<br>Hic. And I would find myself and not an image.<br>Ille. That is our modern hope, and by its light<br>We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind<br>And lost the old nonchalance of the hand;<br>Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush,<br>We are but critics, or but half create,<br>Timid, entangled, empty and abashed,<br>Lacking the countenance of our friends.<br>Hic. And yet<br>The chief imagination of Christendom,<br>Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself<br>That he has made that hollow face of his<br>More plain to the mind's eye than any face<br>But that of Christ.<br>Ille. And did he find himself<br>Or was the hunger that had made it hollow<br>A hunger for the apple on the bough<br>Most out of reach? and is that spectral image<br>The man that Lapo and that Guido knew?<br>I think he fashioned from his opposite<br>An image that might have been a stony face<br>Staring upon a Bedouin's horse-hair roof<br>From doored and windowed cliff, or half upturned<br>Among the coarse grass and the camel-dung.<br>He set his chisel to the hardest stone.<br>Being mocked by Guido for his lecherous life,<br>Derided and deriding, driven out<br>To climb that stair and eat that bitter bread,<br>He found the unpersuadable justice, he found<br>The most exalted lady loved by a man.<br>Hic. Yet surely there are men who have made their art<br>Out of no tragic war, lovers of life,<br>Impulsive men that look for happiness<br>And sing when t'hey have found it.<br>Ille. No, not sing,<br>For those that love the world serve it in action,<br>Grow rich, popular and full of influence,<br>And should they paint or write, still it is action:<br>The struggle of the fly in marmalade.<br>The rhetorician would deceive his neighbours,<br>The sentimentalist himself; while art<br>Is but a vision of reality.<br>What portion in the world can the artist have<br>Who has awakened from the common dream<br>But dissipation and despair?<br>Hic. And yet<br>No one denies to Keats love of the world;<br>Remember his deliberate happiness.<br>Ille. His art is happy, but who knows his mind?<br>I see a schoolboy when I think of him,<br>With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window,<br>For certainly he sank into his grave<br>His senses and his heart unsatisfied,<br>And made -- being poor, ailing and ignorant,<br>Shut out from all the luxury of the world,<br>The coarse-bred son of a livery-stable keeper --<br>Luxuriant song.<br>Hic. Why should you leave the lamp<br>Burning alone beside an open book,<br>And trace these characters upon the sands?<br>A style is found by sedentary toil<br>And by the imitation of great masters.<br>Zlle. Because I seek an image, n-ot a book.<br>Those men that in their writings are most wise,<br>Own nothing but their blind, stupefied hearts.<br>I call to the mysterious one who yet<br>Shall walk the wet sands by the edge of the stream<br>And look most like me, being indeed my double,<br>And prove of all imaginable things<br>The most unlike, being my anti-self,<br>And, standing by these characters, disclose<br>All that I seek; and whisper it as though<br>He were afraid the birds, who cry aloud<br>Their momentary cries before it is dawn,<br>Would carry it away to blasphemous men.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Butler+Yeats">William Butler Yeats</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=537067" data-title="Ego Dominus Tuus de William Butler Yeats" data-description="Hic. On the grey sand beside the shallow stream
Under your old wind-beaten tower, where still
A lamp burns on beside the open book
That Michael Robartes left, you walk in the moon,
And, though you have passed the best of life, still trace,
Enthral..."></div>
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