Tag Archives: In Memory of W.B. Yeats

“For poetry makes nothing happen …”

For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.

— from W.H. Auden’s “In Memory of W. B. Yeats”

 

AudenVanVechten1939

“For poetry makes nothing happen …”

“… Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.”

— from W.H. Auden’s “In Memory of W.B. Yeats,” 1940

 

AudenVanVechten1939