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The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats (The Collected Works of W.B. Yeats #1)

W.B. Yeats

Paperback | Pages: 544 pages

Rating: 4.24 | 33667 Users | 368 Reviews

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Title	:	The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats (The Collected Works of W.B. Yeats #1)
Author	:	W.B. Yeats
Book Format	:	Paperback
Book Edition	:	Anniversary Edition
Pages	:	Pages: 544 pages
Published	:	September 9th 1996 by Scribner (first published 1895)
Categories	:	Poetry. Classics. European Literature. Irish Literature. Cultural. Ireland. Literature. Fiction

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The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats includes all of the poems authorized by Yeats for inclusion in his standard canon. Breathtaking in range, it encompasses the entire arc of his career, from luminous reworking of ancient Irish myths and legends, to passionate meditations on the demands and rewards of youth and old age, from exquisite, occasionally whimsical songs of love, nature, and art to somber and angry poems of life in a nation torn by war and uprising. In observing the development of rich and recurring images and themes over the course of his body of work, we can trace the quest of this century's greatest poet to unite intellect and artistry in a single magnificent vision.

Revised and corrected, this edition includes Yeat's own notes on his poetry, complemented by explanatory notes from esteemed Yeats scholar Richard J. Finneran. The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats is the most comprehensive edition of one of the world's most beloved poets available in paperback.

Declare Books During The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats (The Collected Works of W.B. Yeats #1)

Original Title:	The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats
ISBN:	0684807319 (ISBN13: 9780684807317)
Edition Language:	English
Series:	The Collected Works of W.B. Yeats #1
Characters:	Tiriel, Yeats, Theotormon, Boehme, Heva, Zazel, Dectora, Aibric, Aherne, Vijaya, S. Patrick, Edain, John Synge, Lomair, Forgael

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Ratings: 4.24 From 33667 Users | 368 Reviews

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Okay. Cards on the table.I'm not actually that into Yeats. I mean, he's fine, don't get me wrong. Kind of an interesting dude with his Cabalism and his Jacob Black-esque mother-to-daughter romantic transference thing.And some of his poetry I can't deny is pretty impressive stuff: the one about wishing for the cloths of the heaven, and the second coming, and the lake isle of innisfree. All that silver apples of the moon stuff. Very nice.But, honestly, I used to keep this on my bedside table in

I wasn't sure how I felt about Yeats, so I went through and can more or less confirm that he wrote some good poems later in his career -- even a few very good poems -- but that the bulk of his work, particularly the early stuff more rooted in Irish folklore and the ethos of the pre-Raphaelites, felt just a little bit too Lord of the Rings-meets-Michael Flatley for me to actually like. Maybe it's because I'm not Irish, maybe it's my being firmly here and now in the 21st Century, but I have to

Frequently did not know what was going on, but enjoyed many wonderful phrases and images. An endless wood, full of Celtic twilight.

I like Yeats, I think. Mostly because he likes Irish mythology and writes lots of poems about it - a basic knowledge of Irish myths is helpful, but not totally necessary.One of my favorites, for sheer Icky But Awesome Factor, is Leda and the Swan. My class spent nearly an hour discussing it and I almost understand it. "LEDA AND THE SWANA sudden blow: the great wings beating stillAbove the staggering girl, her thighs caressedBy the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,He holds her helpless

My favourite piece of Yeats, which I've known since I was a teenager. I've never really figured out what it means, but I think it's wonderful all the same:Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World! You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing. Beauty grown sad with its eternity Made you of us, and of the dim grey sea. Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait, For God has bid them share an

In 1969, a late Saturday afternoon, when having just hitched just a single ride, for two long days, from Kabalda mining camp to Melbourne with a couple cattlemen from Carnavon, I arrived at the home of two nurses from Scotland I had met on the ship from Vancouver. They were preparing for a party. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kambald...https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carnarv...https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/SS_Orca...The next morning, I heard that I'd been impressive the night before quoting

The woods of Arcady are dead,And over is their antique joy;Of old the world on dreaming fed;Grey Truth is now her painted toy;Yet still she turns her restless head:Everything he writes is beauty personified, from his love poems to his Irish mythology. We sat grown quiet at the name of love; We saw the last embers of daylight die, And in the trembling blue-green of the sky A moon, worn as if it had been a shell Washed by times waters as they rose and fell About the stars and broke in days and