The poem is organized into three sections and is a commentary on the nature of a great poet’s art and its role during a time of great calamity-as well as the ordinary time of life’s struggles. He is easily considered one of the most important poets of the 20th century, and Auden recognized it at the time. He was politically active, mystical, and often deeply pessimistic, but his work also evinces intense lyrical beauty and fervent exaltation in Nature. He never abandoned the traditional verse format of English poetry but embraced some of the tenets of modernism, especially the modernism practiced by Ezra Pound. Yeats was born in Ireland 1856 and embraced poetry very early in his life. This was the year he moved to New York and the year the world catapulted itself into the Second World War. Written in 1940, it commemorates the death of the poet in 1939, a critical year for Auden personally as well as for the world at large. ![]() AnalysisĪlong with his piece on the death of Sigmund Freud, Auden's tribute to the poet William Butler Yeats is a most memorable elegy on the death of a public figure. ![]() Despite “human unsuccess,” the poet can sing out through the “curse” and “distress.” Thus one’s poetry is a “healing fountain” that, although life is a “prison,” can “teach the free man how to praise” life anyway. Meanwhile, “the dogs of Europe bark” and humans continue their “intellectual disgrace.” But the poet is to “follow right / To the bottom of the night,” despite the dark side of humanity somehow persuading others to rejoice in existence. In the third, final section of the poem, the poet asks the Earth to receive Yeats as “an honoured guest.” The body, “emptied of its poetry,” lies there. Poetry survives and gives voice to survival in a space of isolation. In the second section of the poem, Yeats is called “silly like us.” It was “Mad Ireland” that caused Yeats the suffering he turned into poetry. While the rest of civilization moves on, “a few thousand” will remember the day of his death as special. He lives through his poetry, scattered among cities and unfamiliar readers and critics, who modify his life and poetry through their own understandings. Yet, for Yeats himself, mind and body failed, leaving no one to appreciate his life but his admirers. While nature followed its course elsewhere, mourners kept his poems alive without letting the poet’s death interfere. The thermometer and other instruments told us the day he died “was a dark cold day.” William Butler Yeats died in winter: the brooks were frozen, airports were all but empty, and statues were covered in snow.
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