A Terrible Beauty is Born
Recently there have been a few questions regarding my icon, namely, who the hell is it and when am I going to get rid of it because it's ugly.
It's William Butler Yeats, Irish poet and patriot. The line "a terrible beauty is born" is from his poem "Easter, 1916" about the Easter Rebellion. Although the rebellion was crushed (with some difficulty because Britain was embroiled in WWI at the time) Ireland finally, after 700 years, won her freedom in 1920.
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse.
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vain-glorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it
Where long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call.
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead.
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse --
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
The literary and historical aspects of the icon I like. Combine those with the personal meaning of the phrase "a terrible beauty is born" and the icon, as butt ugly as it is, is a keeper.
In other news, if I come off as slightly pissed, it's because my office just sent me to 68th St. and Broadway to Innovation Luggage to buy a luggage cart for some boxes (a lawyer needs it to go to church* court. Hmmmm.....) I work on 50th and 5th Ave. so it's about 1 1/2 miles distant. Not too far, but time was short and they were breathing down my neck.
Long story short, there's an IL on 44th and 5th. Yes, a bit closer. So I am a little pissed off.
I hate this fucking job.
It's William Butler Yeats, Irish poet and patriot. The line "a terrible beauty is born" is from his poem "Easter, 1916" about the Easter Rebellion. Although the rebellion was crushed (with some difficulty because Britain was embroiled in WWI at the time) Ireland finally, after 700 years, won her freedom in 1920.
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse.
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vain-glorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it
Where long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call.
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead.
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse --
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
The literary and historical aspects of the icon I like. Combine those with the personal meaning of the phrase "a terrible beauty is born" and the icon, as butt ugly as it is, is a keeper.
In other news, if I come off as slightly pissed, it's because my office just sent me to 68th St. and Broadway to Innovation Luggage to buy a luggage cart for some boxes (a lawyer needs it to go to church* court. Hmmmm.....) I work on 50th and 5th Ave. so it's about 1 1/2 miles distant. Not too far, but time was short and they were breathing down my neck.
Long story short, there's an IL on 44th and 5th. Yes, a bit closer. So I am a little pissed off.
I hate this fucking job.