There is no poet that I have spent more time with than W.B. Yeats. I have read and reread his Collected Poems more times than I can count. If I had to get rid of all the books I own but one, his Collected Poems is the book I would keep.

To my mind, there is no greater poet of the English language since Milton and Shakespeare. He wrote great poems in his teens and wrote even greater poems in his 70s.

Over the years, I have read and reread many volumes of his essays, introductions, and his autobiography. Absolutely everything I could put my hands on.

Where I know some people constantly have music and songs playing in their heads, I have Yeats. He is always there. Favorite lines and quotes come and go throughout the day and throughout the seasons.

As I sit down to write this, in mid-November, this is the poem that is going through my head: “Long-Legged Fly.”

Enjoy!

LONG-LEGGED FLY
   by W.B. Yeats


That civilisation may not sink,
Its great battle lost,
Quiet the dog, tether the pony
To a distant post.
Our master Caesar is in the tent
Where the maps are spread,
His eyes fixed upon nothing,
A hand upon his head.
 
  Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
  His mind moves upon silence.
 
That the topless towers be burnt
And men recall that face,
Move most gently if move you must
In this lonely place.
She thinks, part woman, three parts a child,
That nobody looks; her feet
Practise a tinker shuffle
Picked up on the street.
 
  Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
  Her mind moves upon silence.
 
That girls at puberty may find
The first Adam in their thought,
Shut the door of the Pope’s chapel,
Keep those children out.
There on that scaffolding reclines
Michael Angelo.
With no more sound than the mice make
His hand moves to and fro.
 
  Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
  His mind moves upon silence.

Listening With a Pencil and My Ear

These are the lines that go with me everywhere:

With no more sound than the mice make
His hand moves to and fro.
 
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.

I have mentioned here before that I do NOT subscribe to the idea that readers need to “understand” a poem to enjoy it. In the same way that I do not pretend to understand the Grateful Dead’s song “Terrapin Station,” I just respond to “Long-Legged Fly” and many of Yeats’ poems in some deeper part of my soul. That part which resonates with Beauty and Mystery and Wonder. The truly human part.