WRFH/Radio Free Hillsdale 101.7 FM - The Poetry Fix: Easter, 1916

Episode Date: April 10, 2024

In this episode of The Poetry Fix, we explore Easter, 1916, by William Butler Yeats.

Welcome to the Poetry Fix on Radio Free Hillsdale 101.7 FM. I'm your host, Eric Kaiba, bringing you your weekly fix of poetry from across time. Today we're reading Easter 1916 by William Butler Yates. Imagine for a moment the people you see in passing every day. There's the people you like, the people you don't. Think of all the people you know on the surface, but not that deeply. Now imagine that these people die as heroes. And you have the subject of Easter, 1916.

On April 24, 1916, Irish rebels rose up against British rule by taking over several buildings in Dublin and declaring an Irish Republic. The British military put the rebellion down pretty quickly, and the rebel leaders were all executed. Yates knew these people personally. He knew them before they reached greatness. Yates describes formerly seeing himself. and all these people as playing parts in a comedy, like gestures, before the events of Easter 1916, but the rebels have transcended having a simple part in the play of life. Yates does not glorify them to the point of pure heroism either. This is not just a political poem. It leaves us with a message

that human beings are rife with complexities, and that we're living in a world rife with complexities. With all that said, let's dive in. Easter, 1916, I have met them at close of day, coming with vivid faces, from counter or desk among grey 18th century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head or polite, meaningless words, or have lingered a while and said polite, meaningless words, and thought before I had done of a mocking tale or a jive to please a companion around the fire at the club, being certain that they and I but lived where motley is worn. All changed, changed utterly. A terrible beauty is born. That woman's days were spent in ignorant goodwill, her nights in argument, until her voice grew shrill. What voice more sweet than

hers when young and beautiful she rode to Harriers? This man had kept to school and rode our winged horse. This other, his helper and friend was coming into his force. He might have won fame, in the end, so sensitive his nature seemed, so daring and sweet his thought. This other man I had dreamed, a drunken, vainglorious lout, he had done most bitter wrong to some who are near my heart, yet I number him in the song. He too has resigned his part in the casual comedy. He too has been changed in his turn, transformed utterly. A terrible beauty is born. Hearts with one purpose alone, through summer and winter, seem enchanted to a stone to trouble the living stream.

The horse that comes from the road, the rider, the birds that range from cloud to tumbling cloud, minute by minute they change. A shadow of cloud on the stream changes minute by minute. A horse hoof slides on the brim and a horse plashes within it. The long-legged moorhens dive, and hens to Moorcock's call, minute by minute they live. The stones in the midst of all. Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. Oh, when may it suffice? That is heaven's part. Our part to murmur name upon name as a mother names her child when sleep at last has come, on limbs that had run wild. What is it but nightfall? No, no, not night, but death. Was it needless death, after all? For England may keep faith for all that is done and said, we know there

dream, enough to know they dreamed and are dead. And what if excess of love bewildered them till they died? I write it out in a verse, McDonough and McBride, and Connolly and Purse. Now and in time to be, wherever green is worn, are changed, changed utterly. A terrible beauty is born. You've been listening to The Poetry Fix with Erica Kaiba. Join me next week, and we'll be reading an excerpt from Yes, Eliot's Love Song of J. Alfred Prufro.