William Butler Yeats
Der irische Dichter William Butler Yeats wurde am 13. Juni 1865 als Sohn des bekannten irischen Kunstmalers John Butler Yeats in Sandymount (heute ein Stadtteil Dublins) geboren. Seine Schuldbildung erhielt er teils in London und teils in Dublin, wo er auch Kunst studierte. Die Semesterferien verbrachte Yeats in seiner Heimat, dem westirischen Sligo. Dort begeisterte er sich für das irische Kulturerbe. 1887 zog er mit seinen Eltern nach London, wo er zunächst unter dem Einfluss des französischen Symbolismus und der Präraffaeliten stand und sich mit der englischen Romantik, namentlich mit Percy Bysshe Shelley und William Blake, befasste. Während dieser Zeit begann er sich auch für Hinduismus, Theosophie und Okkultismus zu interessieren. Darüber hinaus verfasste er lyrische Gedichte, in denen er symbolhaft heidnische Traditionen Irlands beschrieb, wie z. B. The Wanderings of Oisin (1889) und The Lake Isle of Innisfree (1893). 1896 kehrte Yeats nach Irland zurück. Er unterhielt eine freundschaftliche Beziehung zu der irischen Schriftstellerin Lady Isabella Augusta Gregory, war häufig auf deren Landsitz Coole Park, einem Treffpunkt irischer Intellektueller, zu Gast und begleitete sie auf Reisen durch Italien. Gemeinsam gründeten sie 1904 das berühmte Abbey Theater. Als Theaterdirektor und Dramatiker trug Yeats wesentlich dazu bei, dass das neu gegründete Theater internationale Bedeutung erlangte und sich zum Zentrum einer literarischen Bewegung entwickelte, die als Irisch-Keltische Renaissance bezeichnet wird. Zu den Bühnenwerken, die Yeats für das Abbey Theater schrieb, gehören Cathleen ni Houlihan (1902, Cathleen, die Tochter Houlihans), ein nationalistisch geprägtes Prosastück mit Maud Gonne in der Hauptrolle, und die Verstragödie Deirdre (1907). Yeats’ literarisches Spätwerk entstand unter dem Einfluss seiner medial veranlagten Ehefrau Georgie Hyde-Lees, mit der er seit 1917 verheiratet war. Für sein Schaffen erhielt der Autor 1923 den Nobelpreis für Literatur.
THE INDIAN TO HIS LOVE
THE island dreams under the dawn
And great boughs drop tranquillity;
The peahens dance on a smooth lawn,
A parrot sways upon a tree,
Raging at his own image in the enamelled sea.
Here we will moor our lonely ship
And wander ever with woven hands,
Murmuring softly lip to lip,
Along the grass, along the sands,
Murmuring how far away are the unquiet lands:
How we alone of mortals are
Hid under quiet boughs apart,
While our love grows an Indian star,
A meteor of the burning heart,
One with the tide that gleams, the wings that gleam and dart,
The heavy boughs, the burnished dove
That moans and sighs a hundred days:
How when we die our shades will rove,
When eve has hushed the feathered ways,
With vapoury footsole by the water's drowsy blaze.
LINES WRITTEN IN DEJECTION
WHEN have I last looked on
The round green eyes and the long wavering bodies
Of the dark leopards of the moon?
All the wild witches, those most notable ladies,
For all their broom-sticks and their tears,
Their angry tears, are gone.
The holy centaurs of the hills are vanished;
I have nothing but the embittered sun;
Banished heroic mother moon and vanished,
And now that I have come to fifty years
I must endure the timid sun.
RECONCILIATION
SOME may have blamed you that you took away
The verses that could move them on the day
When, the ears being deafened, the sight of the eyes blind
With lightning, you went from me, and I could find
Nothing to make a song about but kings,
Helmets, and swords, and half-forgotten things
That were like memories of you--but now
We'll out, for the world lives as long ago;
And while we're in our laughing, weeping fit,
Hurl helmets, crowns, and swords into the pit.
But, dear, cling close to me; since you were gone,
My barren thoughts have chilled me to the bone.

William Butler Yeats (13. Juni 1865 – 28. Januar 1939)
THE INDIAN TO HIS LOVE
THE island dreams under the dawn
And great boughs drop tranquillity;
The peahens dance on a smooth lawn,
A parrot sways upon a tree,
Raging at his own image in the enamelled sea.
Here we will moor our lonely ship
And wander ever with woven hands,
Murmuring softly lip to lip,
Along the grass, along the sands,
Murmuring how far away are the unquiet lands:
How we alone of mortals are
Hid under quiet boughs apart,
While our love grows an Indian star,
A meteor of the burning heart,
One with the tide that gleams, the wings that gleam and dart,
The heavy boughs, the burnished dove
That moans and sighs a hundred days:
How when we die our shades will rove,
When eve has hushed the feathered ways,
With vapoury footsole by the water's drowsy blaze.
LINES WRITTEN IN DEJECTION
WHEN have I last looked on
The round green eyes and the long wavering bodies
Of the dark leopards of the moon?
All the wild witches, those most notable ladies,
For all their broom-sticks and their tears,
Their angry tears, are gone.
The holy centaurs of the hills are vanished;
I have nothing but the embittered sun;
Banished heroic mother moon and vanished,
And now that I have come to fifty years
I must endure the timid sun.
RECONCILIATION
SOME may have blamed you that you took away
The verses that could move them on the day
When, the ears being deafened, the sight of the eyes blind
With lightning, you went from me, and I could find
Nothing to make a song about but kings,
Helmets, and swords, and half-forgotten things
That were like memories of you--but now
We'll out, for the world lives as long ago;
And while we're in our laughing, weeping fit,
Hurl helmets, crowns, and swords into the pit.
But, dear, cling close to me; since you were gone,
My barren thoughts have chilled me to the bone.

William Butler Yeats (13. Juni 1865 – 28. Januar 1939)
froumen - 13. Jun, 19:12