Sweet Dancer

The girl goes dancing there
On the leaf-sown, new-mown, smooth
Grass plot of the garden;
Escaped from bitter youth,
Escaped out of her crowd,
Or out of her black cloud.
i(Ah, dancer, ah, sweet dancer.!)

If strange men come from the house
To lead her away, do not say
That she is happy being crazy;
Lead them gently astray;
Let her finish her dance,
Let her finish her dance.
i(Ah, dancer, ah, sweet dancer.!)

William Butler Yeats

William Butler Yeats was an Irish poet, dramatist, prose writer, and one of the foremost figures of 20th-century literature. A pillar of both the Irish and British literary establishments, in his later years he served as an Irish Senator for two terms. Yeats was a driving force behind the Irish Literary Revival and was co-founder of the Abbey Theatre. In 1923, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.

William Butler Yeats

To A Young Girl

William Butler Yeats, Simple Poetry

Responsibilities

William Butler Yeats, Simple Poetry

Death

William Butler Yeats, Simple Poetry

He Tells Of The Perfect Beauty

William Butler Yeats, Simple Poetry

English

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Crazy Jane Grown Old Looks At The Dancers

I found that ivory image there
Dancing with her chosen youth,
But when he wound her coal-black hair
As though to strangle her, no scream
Or bodily movement did I dare,
Eyes under eyelids did so gleam;
Love is like the lion's tooth.

When She, and though some said she played
I said that she had danced heart's truth,
Drew a knife to strike him dead,
I could but leave him to his fate;
For no matter what is said
They had all that had their hate;
Love is like the lion's tooth.

Did he die or did she die?
Seemed to die or died they both?
God be with the times when I
Cared not a thraneen for what chanced
So that I had the limbs to try
Such a dance as there was danced -
Love is like the lion's tooth.

William Butler Yeats

To A Child Dancing In The Wind

I

Dance there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
For wind or waters roar?
And tumble out your hair
That the salt drops have wet;
Being young you have not known
The fools triumph, nor yet
Love lost as soon as won,
Nor the best labourer dead
And all the sheaves to bind.
What need have you to dread
The monstrous crying of wind?

II

Has no one said those daring
Kind eyes should be more learnd?
Or warned you how despairing
The moths are when they are burned,
I could have warned you, but you are young,
So we speak a different tongue.

O you will take what evers offered
And dream that all the worlds a friend,
Suffer as your mother suffered,
Be as broken in the end.
But I am old and you are you...

William Butler Yeats

Only A Dancing Girl

Only a dancing girl,
With an unromantic style,
With borrowed color and curl,
With fixed mechanical smile,
With many a hackneyed wile,
With ungrammatical lips,
And corns that mar her trips!

Hung from the "flies" in air,
She acts a palpable lie,
She's as little a fairy there
As unpoetical I!
I hear you asking, Why
Why in the world I sing
This tawdry, tinselled thing?

No airy fairy she,
As she hangs in arsenic green,
From a highly impossible tree,
In a highly impossible scene
(Herself not over clean).
For fays don't suffer, I'm told,
From bunions, coughs, or cold.

And stately dames that bring
Their daughters there to see,
Pronounce the "dancing thing"
No better than she should be.
With her skirt at he...

William Schwenck Gilbert

The Countess Cathleen In Paradise

All the heavy days are over;
Leave the body's coloured pride
Underneath the grass and clover,
With the feet laid side by side.
Bathed in flaming founts of duty
She'll not ask a haughty dress;
Carry all that mournful beauty
To the scented oaken press.
Did the kiss of Mother Mary
Put that music in her face?
Yet she goes with footstep wary,
Full of earth's old timid grace.
'Mong the feet of angels seven
What a dancer glimmering!
All the heavens bow down to Heaven,
Flame to flame and wing to wing.

William Butler Yeats

The Man Who Dreamed Of Faeryland

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 tha...

William Butler Yeats

How a Little Girl Danced

Dedicated to Lucy Bates

(Being a reminiscence of certain private theatricals.)



    Oh, cabaret dancer, I know a dancer,
    Whose eyes have not looked on the feasts that are vain.
    I know a dancer, I know a dancer,
    Whose soul has no bond with the beasts of the plain:
    Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer,
    With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain.

    Oh, thrice-painted dancer, vaudeville dancer,
    Sad in your spangles, with soul all astrain,
    I know a dancer, I know a dancer,
    Whose laughter and weeping are spiritual gain,
    A pure-hearted, high-hearted maiden evangel,
    With strength the dark cynical earth to disdain.

    Flowers of bright Broadway, you of the c...

Vachel Lindsay