Barely a spittin’ of Gaelic blood can I claim.

Nevertheless, something about Irish literature touches me deeply. Irish literature boasts a rich tradition in the mythic voice, writers like Joyce, Shaw, Synge, and Wilde crafting their ageless works from the most primordial fabric. They wrote of loss and love, of death and desire, of yearning and learning. For me, reading their words is to peer into my own soul.

If I could suggest any writer to readers, it would be the incomparable W.B. Yeats. He’s been featured previously on this blog, and today, I’d like to feature him again:

OLD MEMORY

O thought, fly to her when the end of day
Awakens an old memory, and say,
‘Your strength, that is so lofty and fierce and kind,
It might call up a new age, calling to mind
The queens that were imagined long ago,
Is but half yours: he kneaded in the dough
Through the long years of youth, and who would have thought
It all, and more than it all, would come to naught,
And that dear words meant nothing?’ But enough,
For when we have blamed the wind we can blame love;
Or, if there needs be more, be nothing said
That would be harsh for children that have strayed.

~ by manjouming on March 22, 2008.