JAF Systems Worldwide TM   Text File 

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The current texts are exerpted from Selected Poems and 3 Plays of William Butler Yeats, 
3rd edition, edited by M.L. Rosenthal, Collier Books. 1986.
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	"Parnell"

PARNELL came down the road, he said to a cheering man:
'Ireland shall get her freedom, and you shall break stone.'

(1938)

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	"The Great Day"

HURRAH for revolution and more cannon-shot! 
A beggar on horseback lashes a beggar on foot.
Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again!
The beggars have changed places but the lash goes on.

(1938)
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	"The Pity of Love"

A pity beyond all telling
Is hid in the heart of love: 
The folk who are buying and selling,
The clouds on their journey above,
The cold wet winds ever blowing,
And the shadowy hazel grove
Where mouse-grey waters are flowing,
Threaten the head that I love.

(1892)
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	"The Old Men Admiring Themselves in the Water"

I HEARD the old, old men say, 
'Everything alters,
And one by one we drop away.'
They had hands like claws, and their knees
Were twisted like the old thorn-trees
By the waters.
I heard the old, old men say, 
'All that's beautiful drifts away
Like the waters.' 

(1903)


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Prior Texts Archive

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Les A. Murray's 

 "An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow" 

(From the Faber Book of Modern Australian Verse
Edited by Vincent Buckley. 1991.)

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The word goes round Repins,
the murmur goes round Lorenzinis,
at Tattersalls, men look up from sheets of numbers,
the Stock Exchange scribblers forget the chalk in their hands
and men with bread in their pockets leave the Greek Club:
There's a fellow crying in Martin Place. They can't stop him.

The traffic in George Street is banked up for half a mile
and drained of motion. The crowds are edgy with talk 
and more crowds come hurrying. Many run in the back streets 
which minutes ago were busy main streets, pointing: 
There's a fellow weeping down there. No one can stop him. 

The man we surround, the man no one approaches
simply weeps, and does not cover it, weeps
not like a child, not like the wind, like a man
and does not declaim it, nor beat his breast, nor even
sob very loudly - yet the dignity of his weeping

holds us back from his space, the hollow he makes about him
in the midday light, in his pentagram of sorrow, 
and uniforms back in the crowd who tried to seize him
stare out at him, and feel, with amazement, their minds
longing for tears as children for a rainbow. 

Some will say, in the years to come, a halo
or force stood around him. There is no such thing. 
Some will say they were shocked and would have stopped him
but they will not have been there. The fiercest manhood,
the toughest reserve, the slickest wit amongst us
trembles with silence, and burns with unexpected
judgements of peace. Some in the concourse scream
who thought themselves happy. Only the smallest children
and such as look out of Paradise come near him
and sit at his feet, with dogs and dusty pigeons. 

Ridiculous, says a man near me, and stops 
his mouth with his hands, as if it uttered vomit - 
and I see a woman, shining, stretch her hand
and shake as she receives the gift of weeping;
as many as follow her also receive it

and many weep for sheer acceptance, and more
refuse to weep for fear of all acceptance,
but the weeping man, like the earth, requires nothing,
the man who weeps ignores us, and cries out
of his writhen face and ordinary body

not words, but grief, not messages, but sorrow
hard as the earth, sheer, present as the sea - 
and when he stops, he simply walks between us
mopping his face with the dignity of one
man who has wept, and now has finished weeping. 

Evading believers, he hurries off down Pitt Street. 




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Viktor Frankl's "Man's Search for Meaning,"
revised edition 1984.

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"...[T]he value of each and every person stay[s] with him or her, 
...and is not contingent on the usefulness that he or she may or 
may not retain in the present. 

More specifically, this usefulness is usually defined in terms of 
functioning for the benefit of society. But today's society is 
characterized by achievement orientation, and consequently it adores 
people who are successful and happy and, in particular, the young. 
It virtually ignores the value of all those who are otherwise, 
and in so doing blurs the decisive difference between being valuable 
in the sense of dignity and being valuable in the sense of usefulness.  
If one is not cognizant of this difference and holds that an 
individual's value stems only from his present usefulness, then, 
believe me, one owes it only to personal inconsistency not to plead 
for euthanasia along the lines of Hitler's program, that is to say, 
"mercy" killing of all those who have lost their social usefulness, 
be it because of old age, incurable illness, mental deterioration, 
or whatever handicap they may suffer... "


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"Inviting a Friend to Supper" 

by Ben Jonson (1573-1637)

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To night, grave sir, both my poore house, and I 
Doe equally desire your companie:
Not that we thinke us worthy such a ghest,
But that your worth will dignifie our feast,
With those that come; whose grace may make that seeme
Something, which, else, could hope for no esteeme.
It is the faire acceptance, Sir, creates
The entertaynment perfect: not the cates. 
Yet shall you have, to rectifie your palate,
An olive, capers, or some better sallade
Ushring the mutton; with a short-leg'd hen,
If we can get her, full of egs, and then,
Limmons, and wine for sauce: to these, a coney
Is not to be despair'd of, for our money;
And, though fowle, now, be scarce, yet there are clarkes,
The skie not falling, thinke we may have larkes.
Ile tell you more, and lye, so you will come:
Of partrich, pheasant, wood-cock, of which some
May yet be there: and godwit, if we can:
Knat, raile, and ruffe too. How so ere, my man
Shall reade a piece of Virgil, Tacitus,
Livie, or of some better booke to us, 
Of which wee'll speake our minds, amidst our meate;
And Ile professe no verses to repeate:
To this, if ought appeare, which I not know of,
That will the pastrie, not my paper, show of.
Digestive cheese, and fruit there sure will bee;
But that, which most doth take my Muse, and mee,
Is a pure cup of rich Canary-wine,
Which is the Mermaids, now, but shall be mine:
Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted,
Their lives, as doe their lines, till now had lasted.
Tabacco, Nectar, or the Thespian spring,
Are all but Luthers beere, to this I sing.
Of this we will sup free, but moderately,
And we will have no Pooly', or Parrot by;
Nor shall our cups make any guiltie men:
But, at our parting, we will be, as when
We innocently met. No simple word,
That shall be utter'd at our mirthful boord,
Shall make us sad next morning: or affright
The libertie, that wee'll enjoy to night.


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Potatoes
by David Donnell

This poem is about the strength and sadness of potatoes.
Unknown in Portugal or China, England or France,
untasted by the legions of Hannibal or Caesar,
hardy, simple, variable tuber; plain dusty brown,
North Carolina, New Brunswick, Idaho,
of the new world, passed over by the Indians
who preferred the bright yellow of corn, its sweetness,
the liquor they made from it, pemmican and wild corn mush.
The potato was seized upon by the more spiritual Puritans
while their companions were enraptured
by the beauty of the New World tobacco, cotton, and squash.

The Puritans recognized something of themselves in the pale
potato.  Its simple shape reminded them of the human soul;
the many eyes of the potato amazed them.  They split it
in half and saw the indivisibility of man;
they looked at the many eyes of the potato
and saw God looking back at them. 
Potatoes like many different kinds of soil, resist cold weather,
store well in cool cellars and are more nutritious than beets.
Potato dumplings became the piece de resistance of eastern Europe.
They developed a considerable number of useful proverbs.
For example: 'Love is not a potato, do not throw it out the window'.
Or the famous Scottish lament -- 'What good is he to me?
For three days he has not even brought me a potato'.

The potato is modest and develops its indivisible bounty
under the ground, taking from the ground some of its color
and just enough skin to resist an excess of moisture.
It can be harvested easily by young boys and girls working
in rows with bushel baskets and pausing at lunch
to lift up their skirts and make love under the fences. 
Truckloads of potatoes can be sent to every part of the world.
The French make frites with them. The Russians make vodka.
The Chinese have white and brown rice but all potatoes are the same.
Potato flour is not as sweet as corn but makes an excellent bread.
In the cellars of poor farmers all over America
the potatoes sit quietly on top of each other growing eyes.

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(1980)
from
Oxford Book of Canadian Verse, 
Chosen by Margaret Atwood. 
Oxford Univ. Press. 1983.

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      The Tale of Sunlight

by Gary Soto


Listen, nephew.
When I opened the cantina
At noon
A triangle of sunlight
Was stretched out
On the floor 
Like a rug
Like a tired cat.
It flared in 
From the window
Through a small hole
Shaped like a yawn.
Strange I thought
And placed my hand
Before the opening,
But the sunlight 
Did not vanish.
I pulled back
The shutters
And the room glowed,
But this pyramid
Of whiteness
Was simply brighter.
The sunlight around it 
Appeared soiled
Like the bed sheet
of a borracho.
Amazed, I locked the door,
Closed the windows.
Workers, in from 
The fields, knocked 
To be let in,
Children peeked
Through the shutters,
But I remained silent.
I poured a beer,
At a table 
Shuffled a pack
Of old cards,
And watched it 
Cross the floor,
Hang on the wall
Like a portrait
Like a calendar
Without numbers.
When a fly settled 
In the sunlight
And disappeared
In a wreath of smoke,
I tapped it with the broom,
Spat on it.
The broom vanished.
The spit sizzled.
It is the truth, little one.
I stood eye to blank eye
And by misfortune
This finger 
This pink stump
Entered the sunlight,
Snapped off
With a dry sneeze,
And fell to the floor
As a gift
To the ants
Who know me
For what I gave.

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(1978)
from 
The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry
2nd Edition.
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