William Butler Yeats
THE REALISTS
Hope that you may understand. What can books, of men that wive In a dragon-guarded land; Paintings of the dolphin drawn; Sea nymphs, in their pearly waggons, Do but wake the hope to live That had gone With the dragons.
William Butler Yeats
SANGAR TO LINCOLN STEFFENS
Somewhere I read a strange, old, rusty tale Smelling of war; most curiously named "The Mad Recreant Knight of the West." Once, you have read, the round world brimmed with hate, Stirred and revolted, flashed unceasingly Facets of cruel splendor. And the strong Harried the weak ... Long past, long past, praise God In these fair, peaceful, happy days. The Tale: Eastward the Huns break border, Surf on a rotten dyke; They have murdered the Eastern Warder (His head on a pike). "Arm thee, arm thee, my father! "Swift rides the Goddes-bane, "And the high nobles gather "On the plain!"
"O blind world-wrath!" cried Sangar, "Greatly I killed in youth, "I dreamed men had done with anger "Through Goddes truth!" Smiled the boy then in faint scorn, Hard with the battle-thrill; "Arm thee, loud calls the war-horn "And shrill!"
He has bowed to the voice stentorian, Sick with thought of the grave— He has called for his battered morion And his scarred glaive. On the boy's helm a glove Of the Duke's daughter— In his eyes splendor of love And slaughter.