[Caleb Murdock]

When You Are Old

When you are old and grey 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 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.

W.B. Yeats

I thought of posting this poem because it was mentioned in another thread. This is one of Yeats's more famous poems, but for me, it has some significant flaws. I thought I would share my views to see what other people think.

"Take down this book", I assume, refers to the book of poetry that contains this poem, but it strikes me as a little odd for the poet to be mentioning his own books in his poems. "Dream of the soft look / Your eyes had once" also strikes me as odd, because most people don't dream of their own facial expressions. When we look in the mirror, it is to check our hair and teeth and to see that everything is in place; not many people look into the mirror with a dreamy look in their eyes. The only other time that people see themselves is in photographs, and during that era (early 20th century), having a photograph taken was a big deal, and most photos were posed.

I guess that my point is that most people just aren't going to think of themselves, even in restrospect, in the way that Yeats describes in this poem.

In the third stanza, "murmuring" of how "love fled / And paced upon the mountains overhead" seems to be an expression of the author's feelings, not the feelings of the subject. Clearly, it is the author who is feeling a sense of loss. In fact, throughout the entire poem I feel that Yeats is expressing his own feelings, and is projecting those feelings on the subject.

The second stanza is the only one that strikes me as really perfect in every respect.

Caleb

[This message has been edited by Caleb Murdock (edited December 28, 2000).]

[Manan]

Well, Caleb, i have to say that that was a very pedantic reading. Poetry, as a rule, does not lend itself very well to objectivity. In trying to find flaws in content, you have managed to ruin the perfect symmetry that makes the poem so great. I do not mean to sound rude, but that was the only way I could phrase that sentence. Read it first without any intent to criticise, and let the poem sink into you. Yeats was had mastered the art of wistfulness - my own teminology; I know it sounds corny - it is perhaps why even such a simple poem as The Lake Isle of Innisfree manages to evoke such a sense of wonder. And when you refer to the sense of loss, the loss is as much the author's as it is the subject's and ultimately becomes the reader's.

[RCL]

Caleb, rather than projecting, the speaker seems to be capturing the elusive and necessarily transitory love affair of writer and reader. I assume it's the writer who truly loved the pilgrim soul of the reader throughout the years. And though dead, both are immortalized. It reminds me of the final couplet in Shakespeare's Sonnet 18.

[Caleb Murdock]

Manan, I have this poem on my site precisely because I DO love it. However, the logical inconsistencies have always bothered me, so I posted it here for discussion, and I detailed those inconsistencies. In so doing, I don't think I've done anything to ruin the poem.

[Jim Pitt]

This poem is actually Yeats’s translation of a sonnet by the French poet Pierre de Ronsard (1524-85).

QUAND VOUS SEREZ BIEN VIEILLE

Quand vous serez bien vielle, au soir, a la chandelle,
Assise aupres du feu, devidant et filant,
Direz chantant mes vers, en vous esmerveillant:
Ronsard me celebroit du temps que j’estois belle.
Lors vous n’aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle,
Desja sous le labeur a demy sommeillant,
Qui au bruit de mom nom ne s’aille resveillant,
Benissant vostre nom de louange immortelle.
Je seray sous la terre, et, fantosme sans os,
Par les ombres myreteux je prendray mon repos:
Vous serez au fouyer une vieille accroupie,
Regrettant mon amour et vostre fier desdain,
Vivez si m’em croyez, n’attendez a demain:
Cueillez des aujourd’huy les roses de la vie.

Here is a translation by Humbert Wolfe.

When you are old, at evening candle-lit
beside the fire bending to your wool,
read out my verse and murmur, "Ronsard writ
this praise for me when I was beautiful."
And not a maid but, at the sound of it,
though nodding at the stitch on broidered stool,
will start awake, and bless love’s benefit
whose long fidelities bring Time to school.
I shall be thin and ghost beneath the earth
by myrtle shade in quiet after pain,
but you, a crone, will crouch beside the hearth
mourning my love and all your proud disdain.
And since what comes tomorrow who can say?
Live, pluck the roses of the world today.

Jim

[This message has been edited by Jim Pitt (edited December 28, 2000).]

[Caleb Murdock]

Jim, Yeats's translation is clearly a very loose one, and the problems I find in it do not exist in Wolfe's translation, so my criticisms of Yeats's version remain. Can you tell me when Wolfe's translation was published? If it is old enough and out of copyright (before 1923) I would like to include it on my site.

[Jim Pitt]

Caleb, Yeats's version is loose, but "The New Oxford Book of English Verse" lists it as a translation, with the words after the French of Ronsard.

You wrote: "In fact, throughout the entire poem I feel that Yeats is expressing his own feelings, and is projecting those feelings on the subject."

We should never assume that the thoughts or feelings expressed in a poem are the poet's. Poetry is not autobiography. As your mentor Judson Jerome said, "Poetry requires more showmanship than honesty."

As for Wolfe's translation, it was published in 1967.

By the way, Caleb, I like your Poem Tree.

Jim



[This message has been edited by Jim Pitt (edited December 30, 2000).]

[C.G. Macdonald]

Not that WBY needs Johnny Cochran, or any other defenders, but some of the difficulties you mention, though they may date the poem, do not lessen my opinion of it.

He had already published one book, “Crossways,” when “When You Are Old” was written. As publishers were much less fickle then than now (I don’t believe there were any second book contests at the time), it doesn’t seem too presumptuous of him to expect that the poem he was writing would also be published in a subsequent collection. And it is important, to both Yeat's poem and Ronsard's, that the author be a writer of considerable talent.

He was following the model of a poem by Ronsard. Judging by the translation supplied, I hope most will agree that WBY’s poem was not only a bit more concise, but also a tremendous improvement over the original model. Certainly WBY's version is less egotistical, and prone to the projection of emotions than Ronsard's ("Mourning my love, and all your proud disdain"). From the little I know of Yeats' life, it seems likely that Maude Gonne may have had at least as much to do with this poem as Ronsard.

“Soft look” can plausibly be read as “soft appearance.” I trust I am not the only 40+ person who ever looked in a mirror and lamented the crow’s feet, large dark bags, and bloodshot whites that have come to adorn their eyes. And as the future subject of the poem seems to be at least in her sixties, it is not too much of a stretch to imagine her thinking back on the soft/youthful appearance her eyes had long ago. Though I don’t have much trouble reading the “soft look” as “soft gaze”, as a striking, young woman such as the one in the poem, can easily gauge the how fetching her gaze might be, by its effects on her numerous suitors. May we be allowed to enjoy both interpretations?

The last stanza is the most astonishing part of the poem. I believe the speaker is not so much projecting his feelings on the beloved, as he is describing how he might like to be remembered, something one might have the right to ask, if one hasn’t been too much of a jerk. And, to risk treating the poem as autobiography rather than a fiction, the last three lines can be read as a metaphoric prophecy (perhaps a self-fulfilling prophecy) of the impact that Yeats’ relationship with Maude Gonne would have on his path as a poet. And the imagery and the music!

[This message has been edited by C.G. Macdonald (edited December 30, 2000).]

[Caleb Murdock]

It's funny how a day can change things. Sometimes I am bothered by the kinds of minor inconsistencies I mentioned about this poem, and other days they don't bother me at all. Today, the poem sounds perfect to me. Overall, it is an excellent and beautiful poem.

[Kate Benedict]

What I admire most about this poem is its quiet, contemplative tone. The cadences, the word choices--Yeats evokes the scene so well, of an old woman in reverie over her youthful looks and loves. The "pilgrim soul" line is immortal.

Then you examine the poem more closely and you realize that this is really a revenge poem. "Listen, Maude, you vain thing, you fall for all sorts of flatterers but you fail to recognize that only I love the real you. So let's picture you old and unbeautiful, sitting by a fire and regretting that you ever spurned me."

But Yeats is to be admired for couching all that in these beautiful images, and for a certain restraint, especially in the phrase "a little sadly." He doesn't paint a picture of this woman as experiencing miserable regret, just a little human sadness. The revenge is much less pronounced in Yeats' poem than in the original Ronsard poem, and the "conventional" idea of carpe diem (ho hum) is downplayed.

I've never been sure what to make of the lines that follow, though -- love hiding his face amid the stars. Was it good artistry to wrench this poem so far out of the human realm?