By Thomas Page

A man stands at a precipice, a deluge comes.
He allows the soot and ash of a dying age wash over him.
Can Cathleen ever be heard again
Over the roar of the coming age; an age without reason?
A gentle sound interrupts Yeats’ reverie.
A young man comes in with notes about Japanese.
“Ezra,” he says, “please don’t bother me when I’m in the study.”
Pound stands for a moment to find another reason but leaves.

Yeats turns from the door to look over his work.
All rubbish. Years of work all useless sound without reason,
Without fury. My ditties don’t stir the hearts of Ireland.
The Revival was all in vain; the underserving
Of Eire don’t understand my point.
He tries to find the sound of the new century
Which burns in Ezra’s mind. The America
Furiously writing to usher in an age.

The scene outside of the Cottage is tranquil—
Nothing to revolutionize, nothing to memorialize.
He looks over his new collection.
Responsibilities. To whom? Does it matter?
Synge comes to mind as he edits his poems.
What they did to him was horrendous.
Dying an artistic outcast of his own people.

A church window appears to him—the Nativity.
Frozen in black boughs of metal the three magi
Eternally honoring in an homage to the True King
Artificially Christmastime throughout the liturgical year.
Ireland is wrapped in these vignettes.
Yeats finds the modern voice to tell Ireland
What it deserves based on her behavior
To the great artists who tried to make whole.

“Ezra,” he calls, “could you tell me if you like this poem?”
Pound reenters the study to read Yeats’ poem.
“This is not like your beeloud days of old
This is what poetry is becoming now.”
He leaves to write a glowing review of the new Yeats.
The gyres turn clamorously as he watches a falcon
Circling around, ignoring its falconer.
Yes, things are falling apart

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