
William Butler Yeats
In class the other day we discussed Peter Everwine’s poem “Rain” and the power of his auditory images. Not only does Everwine refer to the “sudden wail” of a loon, he also has these lines in his poem:
…I heard the steady sound of rain
and the soft lapping of water, and did not know
whether it was grief or joy…
Just the very use of the word “lapping” in a poem about a lake is evocative for me. When I read Everwine’s lines, I immediately draw a connection to another poem, “The Lake Isle Innisfree” by William Butler Yeats.
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
— W. B. Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
In class we also talked about the importance of reading poetry aloud, so in keeping with that idea, here’s a YouTube video — really just a recording — of Yeats. In it, Yeats first defends his elocution and then talks about his inspiration for “The Lake Isle Innisfree.” He was actually in London when he heard the sound of water dripping — and he thought immediately of the land around Sligo.
Yeats recites his poetry
(If you let the video play out, you will also hear Yeats recite “The Fiddler of Dooney,” “The Song of the Old Mother,” and parts of “Coole Park and Ballylee.”)
Yeats recited his poetry in this chanting (and possibly incantatory) way because he believed it would revive the ancient bardic tradition in Ireland and help connect the country to its past. To our modern ears it may sound unusual at first, but by listening to the recordings Yeats did for the BBC in the 1930s, we come into contact with this old — ancient — tradition.
I don’t know about you, but the recording galvanizes and thrills me.