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The Rose
This scarce antiquarian book is a facsimile reprint of the original. Due to its age, it may contain imperfections such as marks, notations, marginalia and flawed pages. Because we believe this work is culturally important, we have made it available as part of our commitment for protecting, preserving, and promoting the world's literature in affordable, high quality, modern editions that are true to the original work.
First published January 1, 1893
About the author
W.B. Yeats
1,860 books2,422 followersWilliam Butler Yeats was an Irish poet and dramatist, and one of the foremost figures of 20th century literature. A pillar of both the Irish and British literary establishments, in his later years Yeats served as an Irish Senator for two terms. He was a driving force behind the Irish Literary Revival, and along with Lady Gregory and Edward Martyn founded the Abbey Theatre, serving as its chief during its early years. In 1923 he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature for what the Nobel Committee described as "inspired poetry, which in a highly artistic form gives expression to the spirit of a whole nation." He was the first Irishman so honored. Yeats is generally considered one of the few writers who completed their greatest works after being awarded the Nobel Prize; such works include The Tower (1928) and The Winding Stair and Other Poems (1929).
Yeats was born and educated in Dublin but spent his childhood in County Sligo. He studied poetry in his youth, and from an early age was fascinated by both Irish legends and the occult. Those topics feature in the first phase of his work, which lasted roughly until the turn of the century. His earliest volume of verse was published in 1889, and those slow paced and lyrical poems display debts to Edmund Spenser and Percy Bysshe Shelley, as well as to the Pre-Raphaelite poets. From 1900, Yeats' poetry grew more physical and realistic. He largely renounced the transcendental beliefs of his youth, though he remained preoccupied with physical and spiritual masks, as well as with cyclical theories of life.
--from Wikipedia
Yeats was born and educated in Dublin but spent his childhood in County Sligo. He studied poetry in his youth, and from an early age was fascinated by both Irish legends and the occult. Those topics feature in the first phase of his work, which lasted roughly until the turn of the century. His earliest volume of verse was published in 1889, and those slow paced and lyrical poems display debts to Edmund Spenser and Percy Bysshe Shelley, as well as to the Pre-Raphaelite poets. From 1900, Yeats' poetry grew more physical and realistic. He largely renounced the transcendental beliefs of his youth, though he remained preoccupied with physical and spiritual masks, as well as with cyclical theories of life.
--from Wikipedia
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Displaying 1 - 18 of 18 reviews
March 11, 2021
An early collection of Yeats’ poetry. Romantic, fanciful and really rather wonderful.
When You Are Old
When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad and grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face,
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
My next book: Marvel Masterworks: Marvel Team-Up vol. 3
When You Are Old
When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad and grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face,
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
My next book: Marvel Masterworks: Marvel Team-Up vol. 3
February 22, 2019
An early collection from 1893 of 23 poems. Highlights - "to the rose upon the rood of time" "the rose of battle" "when you are old" "the two trees"
December 26, 2021
Denna gav ett omoget intryck. Jag förstår impulsen att skriva hjältedikt, och impulsen att använda klassiska gestalter och scener, helt enkelt eftersom de, i egenskap av delade känsloladdade symboler, utgör broar mellan olika människors känslo- och tankevärldar. För det mesta vill man dock använda bron för att föra över något bortom påminnelsen om symbolen i sig, och handlar det om att förstärka bron bör det göras genom att faktiskt skriva den på ett nytt sätt, med ett nytt språk, för att ge tillgång till bron för nya generationer - såsom Howard Pyle gjorde med Malory. Yeats gör inte detta: han viftar med symboler som Cuchulain eller ärkeängeln Mikael utan att föra dem vidare. Det är i mitt tycke antingen ett misslyckande av skicklighetskaraktär eller ett exempel på bristande etik. Jag tror att det rör sig om det förra.
September 27, 2021
A much better collection than his first. This one deals with age, time, and death. It shows a mind that is moving through the general happenings of Ireland while being unable to focus on anything but passing time. There are poems that seem to revel in the mystical (faerie worlds and Druidic towns) but always revert to the impossibility of these magics. It is as if Yeats is trying to use his poetry to bring his image of an everlasting rose to fruition, and yet cannot help but let it die.
January 28, 2013
The two trees
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart,
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start,
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
The changing colours of its fruit
Have dowered the stars with merry light;
The surety of its hidden root
Has planted quiet in the night;
The shaking of its leafy head
Has given the waves their melody,
And made my lips and music wed,
Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
There the Loves a circle go,
The flaming circle of our days,
Gyring, spiring to and fro
In those great ignorant leafy ways;
Remembering all that shaken hair
And how the wingèd sandals dart,
Thine eyes grow full of tender care:
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.
Gaze no more in the bitter glass
The demons, with their subtle guile,
Lift up before us when they pass,
Or only gaze a little while;
For there a fatal image grows
That the stormy night receives,
Roots half hidden under snows,
Broken boughs and blackened leaves.
For all things turn to barrenness
In the dim glass the demons hold,
The glass of outer weariness,
Made when God slept in times of old.
There, through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting thought;
Flying, crying, to and fro,
Cruel claw and hungry throat,
Or else they stand and sniff the wind,
And shake their ragged wings; alas!
Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:
Gaze no more in the bitter glass.
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart,
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start,
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
The changing colours of its fruit
Have dowered the stars with merry light;
The surety of its hidden root
Has planted quiet in the night;
The shaking of its leafy head
Has given the waves their melody,
And made my lips and music wed,
Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
There the Loves a circle go,
The flaming circle of our days,
Gyring, spiring to and fro
In those great ignorant leafy ways;
Remembering all that shaken hair
And how the wingèd sandals dart,
Thine eyes grow full of tender care:
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.
Gaze no more in the bitter glass
The demons, with their subtle guile,
Lift up before us when they pass,
Or only gaze a little while;
For there a fatal image grows
That the stormy night receives,
Roots half hidden under snows,
Broken boughs and blackened leaves.
For all things turn to barrenness
In the dim glass the demons hold,
The glass of outer weariness,
Made when God slept in times of old.
There, through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting thought;
Flying, crying, to and fro,
Cruel claw and hungry throat,
Or else they stand and sniff the wind,
And shake their ragged wings; alas!
Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:
Gaze no more in the bitter glass.
September 11, 2016
This is the second collection I've read by Yeats and I think his first collection, Crossways, is just as good. And I am definitely reading more by this author!
May 6, 2024
Yeats avanza en sus descubrimientos espirituales, involucrando cada vez más. En The Rose hay una sed de retratar muy juvenil y eso me gusta. Entreveo también algunas preguntas profundas enmascaradas en sus poemas: ¿puede matar Dios por misericordia? ¿cuánto poder tiene realmente Dios? ¿qué vale la vida más que el parpadeo que dura? Muy interesante.
April 11, 2017
Much better than the first collection, but still fairly juvenile. It's obvious that his mastery was growing, though, especially in regards to descriptions of the natural world. "The Lake Isle of Innisfree" stands out so much because the rest of the collection is (mostly) rather forgettable.
August 2, 2018
I enjoyed this more than Crossways. It's interesting to see Yeats mature between the two (as well my familiarity with Irish folklore/mythology). The rose poems were the ones which stuck with me the most but I also enjoyed Cuchulain's Fight with the Sea.
May 4, 2019
The 2nd Collection of poems in the collected work of Yeats.
I liked it more than the first one - Crossways - it was more about Irish tales and mostly mourning I really enjoyed it.
To "The Wind Among The Reeds"
I liked it more than the first one - Crossways - it was more about Irish tales and mostly mourning I really enjoyed it.
To "The Wind Among The Reeds"
Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?
For these red lips, with all their mournful pride,
Mournful that no new wonder may betide,
Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam,
And Usna’s children died.
We and the labouring world are passing by:
Amid men’s souls, that waver and give place
Like the pale waters in their wintry race,
Under the passing stars, foam of the sky,
Lives on this lonely face.
I sigh that kiss you,
For I must own
That I shall miss you
When you have grown.
All the heavy days are over;
Leave the body’s coloured pride
Underneath the grass and clover.
With the feet laid side by side.
While still I may, I write for you
The love I lived, the dream I knew.
From our birthday, until we die,
Is but the winking of an eye;
September 6, 2023
My journey of going through Yeats' poetry in chronological order has already lead me on a very impressive and powerful path of language and imagery. Yeats is a master at his craft, and this is only his very early work that I was exposed to so far, so I cannot wait to see how he evolved over the course of his career. When it comes to 'The Rose', I unfortunately didn't really connect to it as much as his first set of poems called 'Crossways', but it still has some very potent poetry within. My two favorites were 'The Two Trees' and 'The Man Who Dreamed of Faeryland', which hold up to the other very best of his poems that I've read so far.
The rest of this collection is sort of mixed to me, because some of the Irish Folklore poems go over my head despite my interest in it and looking up some of the stories behind them, and it also doesn't flow as nicely as well as isn't balanced as thoroughly as the first I read. Nevertheless, a very solid couple of poems.
The rest of this collection is sort of mixed to me, because some of the Irish Folklore poems go over my head despite my interest in it and looking up some of the stories behind them, and it also doesn't flow as nicely as well as isn't balanced as thoroughly as the first I read. Nevertheless, a very solid couple of poems.
Read
February 6, 2021I'm of two minds about this collection and about Yeats's poetry in general...some poems are so luminous and beautiful that I delight to read them over and over again. And some are so inscrutable that I just have to say "What lovely-sounding nonsense!"
January 21, 2022
Several versions of this collection
seem to exist, judging from the fact that the contents of the corresponding section of the Delphi edition has some poetry this doesn’t and vice versa; it’s not wholly clear which version is which, I think. Probably good to have both if possible!
seem to exist, judging from the fact that the contents of the corresponding section of the Delphi edition has some poetry this doesn’t and vice versa; it’s not wholly clear which version is which, I think. Probably good to have both if possible!
May 31, 2023
Very short early work by Yeats, including some of his most musical and accessible poems. Most of them are ballads, and they are nearly uniformly beautiful and delightful to the ear, with an aura of poignancy, which will only become stronger and lean toward bitterness with his later works.
June 2, 2020
I am regretting not visiting Yeats’s Irish Folklore collections...
March 30, 2022
Having read CROSSWAYS I am more comfortable with Yeats. This little book is super!
July 16, 2022
"A climbing moon upon an empty sky,
and all that lamentation of the leaves,
could but compose man's image and his cry."
and all that lamentation of the leaves,
could but compose man's image and his cry."
November 5, 2016
Compared to the previous collection of poems, this one fell rather flat. The poems themselves aren’t really the problem, so much as the singularity of theme and topic throughout (roses, love, etc) which predictably made me feel rather nauseated. From a poet like Yeats this kind of stereotypical collection is highly disappointing, since we are well aware of what he can do within a single poem and in a broader collection.
Displaying 1 - 18 of 18 reviews