Easy/not easy. Also May Eve

[smokingboot]

Delivering programme leaflets for the local festival this year. First trip out, easy. Second, tired out fast. There was about 20 minutes rest between the two trips, and that's me wiped.

It is frustrating. How can I be weaker, more easily clapped out, than when I actually had the cancer? Ridiculous.

Anyway, here comes May Eve. Leave milk out for the fairies tonight! And yes, some say that's for May 1st, but I play it safe, do it both nights.

I am too tired to work on a poem of my own for today. But here's one from perhaps the greatest fairy poet of all time, W.B. Yeats. It's about how, once touched by the realm, it never lets go of you. My brother and I somehow ended up sharing it through the years, like a family story. We recited it together.


https://open.substack.com/pub/smokingboot/p/may-eve-the-man-who-dreamed-of-faeryland?r=1r9jj7&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
Poem in the comments for those who don't want to use substack.

Comments

[smokingboot]

He stood among a crowd at Dromahair;
His heart hung all upon a silken dress,
And he had known at last some tenderness,
Before earth took him to her stony care;
But when a man poured fish into a pile,
It Seemed they raised their little silver heads,
And sang what gold morning or evening sheds
Upon a woven world-forgotten isle
Where people love beside the ravelled seas;
That Time can never mar a lover’s vows
Under that woven changeless roof of boughs:
The singing shook him out of his new ease.

He wandered by the sands of Lissadell;
His mind ran all on money cares and fears,
And he had known at last some prudent years
Before they heaped his grave under the hill;
But while he passed before a plashy place,
A lug-worm with its grey and muddy mouth
Sang that somewhere to north or west or south
There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race
Under the golden or the silver skies;
That if a dancer stayed his hungry foot
It seemed the sun and moon were in the fruit:
And at that singing he was no more wise.

He mused beside the well of Scanavin,
He mused upon his mockers: without fail
His sudden vengeance were a country tale,
When earthy night had drunk his body in;
But one small knot-grass growing by the pool
Sang where — unnecessary cruel voice —
Old silence bids its chosen race rejoice,
Whatever ravelled waters rise and fall
Or stormy silver fret the gold of day,
And midnight there enfold them like a fleece
And lover there by lover be at peace.
The tale drove his fine angry mood away.

He slept under the hill of Lugnagall;
And might have known at last unhaunted sleep
Under that cold and vapour-turbaned steep,
Now that the earth had taken man and all:
Did not the worms that spired about his bones
proclaim with that unwearied, reedy cry
That God has laid His fingers on the sky,
That from those fingers glittering summer runs
Upon the dancer by the dreamless wave.
Why should those lovers that no lovers miss
Dream, until God burn Nature with a kiss?
The man has found no comfort in the grave.