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Unformatted text preview: er of a park, to throw open a park; t o cover t t o other uses. apor/steam/hot bath for immoral pur poses again;" hear. ppy pipe; py cheer!" ain, y t o hear. and wr it e y read." my sight, w reed, en, er clear, songs o hear. d a jar in Tennessee, und it was, upon a hill. the slovenly wilderness nd that hill. lderness rose up to it, rawled around, no longer wild. was round upon the ground l and of a port in air. dominion every where. was gray and bare. ot give of bird or bush, othing else in Tennessee. Metapoetry: poem as a container The Circus Animals Desertion by Yeats I I sought a theme and sought for it in vain, I sought it daily for six weeks or so. Maybe at last, being but a broken man, I must be satisfied with my heart, although Winter and summer till old age began My circus animals were all on show, Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot, Lion and woman and the Lord knows what. II What can I but enumerate old themes, First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams, Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose, Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems, That might adorn old songs or courtly shows; But what cared I that set him on to ride, I, starved for the bosom of his faery bride. And then a counter-truth filled out its play, 'The Countess Cathleen' was the name I gave it; She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away, But masterful Heaven had intervened to save it. I thought my dear must her own soul destroy So did fanaticism and hate enslave it, And this brought forth a dream and soon enough This dream itself had all my thought and love. And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea; Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said It was the dream itself enchanted me: Character isolated by a deed To engross the present and dominate memory. Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of. III Those masterful images because complete Grew in pure mind, but out of what began? A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street, Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can, Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all the ladders start In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart. A Sonnet by Rossetti 1....
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