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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=537218" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Grey Rock</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Poets with whom I learned my trade.<br>Companions of the Cheshire Cheese,<br>Here's an old story I've remade,<br>Imagining 'twould better please<br>Your cars than stories now in fashion,<br>Though you may think I waste my breath<br>Pretending that there can be passion<br>That has more life in it than death,<br>And though at bottling of your wine<br>Old wholesome Goban had no say;<br>The moral's yours because it's mine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When cups went round at close of day --<br>Is not that how good stories run? --<br>The gods were sitting at the board<br>In their great house at Slievenamon.<br>They sang a drowsy song, Or snored,<br>For all were full of wine and meat.<br>The smoky torches made a glare<br>On metal Goban 'd hammered at,<br>On old deep silver rolling there<br>Or on somc still unemptied cup<br>That he, when frenzy stirred his thews,<br>Had hammered out on mountain top<br>To hold the sacred stuff he brews<br>That only gods may buy of him.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now from that juice that made them wise<br>All those had lifted up the dim<br>Imaginations of their eyes,<br>For one that was like woman made<br>Before their sleepy eyelids ran<br>And trembling with her passion said,<br>'Come out and dig for a dead man,<br>Who's burrowing Somewhere in the ground<br>And mock him to his face and then<br>Hollo him on with horse and hound,<br>For he is the worst of all dead men.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We should be dazed and terror-struck,<br>If we but saw in dreams that room,<br>Those wine-drenched eyes, and curse our luck<br>That empticd all our days to come.<br>I knew a woman none could please,<br>Because she dreamed when but a child<br>Of men and women made like these;<br>And after, when her blood ran wild,<br>Had ravelled her own story out,<br>And said, 'In two or in three years<br>I needs must marry some poor lout,'<br>And having said it, burst in tears.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Since, tavern comrades, you have died,<br>Maybe your images have stood,<br>Mere bone and muscle thrown aside,<br>Before that roomful or as good.<br>You had to face your ends when young -<br>'Twas wine or women, or some curse -<br>But never made a poorer song<br>That you might have a heavier purse,<br>Nor gave loud service to a cause<br>That you might have a troop of friends,<br>You kept the Muses' sterner laws,<br>And unrepenting faced your ends,<br>And therefore earned the right - and yet<br>Dowson and Johnson most I praise - <br>To troop with those the world's forgot,<br>And copy their proud steady gaze.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'The Danish troop was driven out<br>Between the dawn and dusk,' she said;<br>'Although the event was long in doubt.<br>Although the King of Ireland's dead<br>And half the kings, before sundown<br>All was accomplished.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  'When this day<br>Murrough, the King of Ireland's son,<br>Foot after foot was giving way,<br>He and his best troops back to back<br>Had perished there, but the Danes ran,<br>Stricken with panic from the attack,<br>The shouting of an unseen man;<br>And being thankful Murrough found,<br>Led by a footsole dipped in blood<br>That had made prints upon the ground,<br>Where by old thorn-trees that man stood;<br>And though when he gazed here and there,<br>He had but gazed on thorn-trees, spoke,<br>&quot;Who is the friend that seems but air<br>And yet could give so fine a stroke?&quot;<br>Thereon a young man met his eye,<br>Who said, &quot;Because she held me in<br>Her love, and would not have me die,<br>Rock-nurtured Aoife took a pin,<br>And pushing it into my shirt,<br>Promised that for a pin's sake<br>No man should see to do me hurt;<br>But there it's gone; I will not take<br>The fortune that had been my shame<br>Seeing, King's son, what wounds you have.&quot;<br>'Twas roundly spoke, but when night came<br>He had betrayed me to his grave,<br>For he and the King's son were dead.<br>I'd promised him two hundred years,<br>And when for all I'd done or said --<br>And these immortal eyes shed tears --<br>He claimed his country's need was most,<br>I'd saved his life, yet for the sake<br>Of a new friend he has turned a ghost.<br>What does he cate if my heart break?<br>I call for spade and horse and hound<br>That we may harry him.' Thereon<br>She cast herself upon the ground<br>And rent her clothes and made her moan:<br>'Why are they faithless when their might<br>Is from the holy shades that rove<br>The grey rock and the windy light?<br>Why should the faithfullest heart most love<br>The bitter sweetness of false faces?<br>Why must the lasting love what passes,<br>Why are the gods by men betrayed?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But thereon every god stood up<br>With a slow smile and without sound,<br>And Stretching forth his arm and cup<br>To where she moaned upon the ground,<br>Suddenly drenched her to the skin;<br>And she with Goban's wine adrip,<br>No more remembering what had been.<br>Stared at the gods with laughing lip.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have kept my faith, though faith was tried,<br>To that rock-born, rock-wandering foot,<br>And thc world's altered since you died,<br>And I am in no good repute<br>With the loud host before the sea,<br>That think sword-strokes were better meant<br>Than lover's music -- let that be,<br>So that the wandering foot's content.</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=537218" data-title="The Grey Rock de William Butler Yeats" data-description="Poets with whom I learned my trade.
Companions of the Cheshire Cheese,
Here's an old story I've remade,
Imagining 'twould better please
Your cars than stories now in fashion,
Though you may think I waste my breath
Pretending that there can be pass..."></div>
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