"Vacillation" by W.B. Yeats

 

W.B. Yeats in 1923

I

Between extremities
Man runs his course;
A brand, or flaming breath.
Comes to destroy
All those antinomies
Of day and night;
The body calls it death,
The heart remorse.
But if these be right
What is joy?

 

II

A tree there is that from its topmost bough
Is half all glittering flame and half all green
Abounding foliage moistened with the dew;
And half is half and yet is all the scene;
And half and half consume what they renew,
And he that Attis’ image hangs between
That staring fury and the blind lush leaf
May know not what he knows, but knows not grief

 

III

Get all the gold and silver that you can,
Satisfy ambition, animate
The trivial days and ram them with the sun,
And yet upon these maxims meditate:
All women dote upon an idle man
Although their children need a rich estate;
No man has ever lived that had enough
Of children’s gratitude or woman’s love.

No longer in Lethean foliage caught
Begin the preparation for your death
And from the fortieth winter by that thought
Test every work of intellect or faith,
And everything that your own hands have wrought
And call those works extravagance of breath
That are not suited for such men as come
proud, open-eyed and laughing to the tomb.

 

IV

My fiftieth year had come and gone,
I sat, a solitary man,
In a crowded London shop,
An open book and empty cup
On the marble table-top.
While on the shop and street I gazed
My body of a sudden blazed;
And twenty minutes more or less
It seemed, so great my happiness,
That I was blessed and could bless.

 

V

Although the summer Sunlight gild
Cloudy leafage of the sky,
Or wintry moonlight sink the field
In storm-scattered intricacy,
I cannot look thereon,
Responsibility so weighs me down.

Things said or done long years ago,
Or things I did not do or say
But thought that I might say or do,
Weigh me down, and not a day
But something is recalled,
My conscience or my vanity appalled.

 

VI

A rivery field spread out below,
An odour of the new-mown hay
In his nostrils, the great lord of Chou
Cried, casting off the mountain snow,
‘Let all things pass away.’

Wheels by milk-white asses drawn
Where Babylon or Nineveh
Rose; some conquer drew rein
And cried to battle-weary men,
‘Let all things pass away.’

From man’s blood-sodden heart are sprung
Those branches of the night and day
Where the gaudy moon is hung.
What’s the meaning of all song?
‘Let all things pass away.’

 

VII

The Soul. Seek out reality, leave things that seem.
The Heart. What, be a singer born and lack a theme?
The Soul. Isaiah’s coal, what more can man desire?
The Heart. Struck dumb in the simplicity of fire!
The Soul. Look on that fire, salvation walks within.
The Heart. What theme had Homer but original sin?

 

VIII

Must we part, Von Hugel, though much alike, for we
Accept the miracles of the saints and honour sanctity?
The body of Saint Teresa lies undecayed in tomb,
Bathed in miraculous oil, sweet odours from it come,
Healing from its lettered slab. Those self-same hands perchance
Eternalised the body of a modern saint that once
Had scooped out pharaoh’s mummy. I – though heart might find relief
Did I become a Christian man and choose for my belief
What seems most welcome in the tomb – play a pre-destined part.
Homer is my example and his unchristened heart.
The lion and the honeycomb, what has Scripture said?
So get you gone, Von Hugel, though with blessings on your head.

O’Gorman’s Stationery Bookshop in Galway, 1978

A few days ago I was looking for a copy of W.B. Yeats’ poem “Vacillation” and looked in Yeats’ Selected Poems for it, of course the poem was there. Then I noticed that I had written the date of when and where I bought this book; it was in Galway, Ireland, on 22 July 1978. I remember being in Galway and walking near a cliff overlooking the ocean and drinking hot tea, it rained and was chilly all the time. I noticed I had purchased the book at O’Gorman’s Stationery Bookshop but I have no memory of being there. I know that the smell of old books, and just the presence of books, has an equilibrating affect on me; I have happy memories reading in bed (for instance, Kathleen Raine's autobiography), falling asleep reading, and even sleeping with a few books on my bed, the weight of books is comforting. Here is another example of the importance of books, of the curative influence of books: I visited an antiquarian bookstore in Arundel, in the UK, before visiting Galway, in July 1978, and immediately felt at peace and at one with the world which I hadn’t been feeling when I entered the store; breathing in the smell of old books brings me peace and happiness. And now, a few weeks after visiting Arundel, here I was in Ireland; it was not a happy time in my life, I was far from home, cold, wet, and lonely. After finding Yeats’s poem I Googled O’Gorman’s Stationery and found that it had closed years ago, but the O’Gorman’s were interesting, especially Ronnie O'Gorman, a grandson of the founder of the bookshop. Ronnie O'Gorman loved books and after his passing his very large collection of books was donated to the University of Galway; Mr. O'Gorman's library is a national treasure. No one needs to be lonely and unhappy if they love books and surround themselves with them.

   

There was a fourth volume to this set of Yeats's books, it was a selection of his plays; I should probably have bought it but didn't. Here are the two Yeats' books that I bought in Sligo a few days after being in Galway:

Canadian Cottage Garden on 11 August 2025

  It’s 33 C. What’s great for the garden may not be great for the gardener.

    

No Exit; be seeing you

 

We’ve lived in an Alice in Wonderland world for 60 years, 

a place where up is down and down is in another time zone.

And what’s that book you're reading? The Elements of Fascism is it?

In which it states, "marginalize what is normal and make it abnormal, 

then criminalize what used to be normal."                                                          

It’s the little things at first and then the language police arrive at your door, 

anonymous informants have turned you in. No search warrant needed

when dealing with the crime of speaking the wrong language.

So, we’re standing around Hell’s airport, staring at Cancelled Departures, 

and then I see where it’s written in tiny letters, 

"there’s no exit from this place.”

"Be seeing you," I say to the others as I return home.

"This is what you shall do", Walt Whitman

 

Walt Whitman

“This is what you shall do; Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.”

                                                                  —Walt Whitman

“...re-examine all you have been told in school or church or in any book, and dismiss whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem, and have the richest fluency, not only in its words, but in the silent lines of its lips and face, and between the lashes of your eyes, and in every motion and joint of your body."

                                                                —Walt Whitman,

                                                                from the preface to Leaves of Grass

“A writer can do nothing for men more necessary, satisfying, than just simply to reveal to them the infinite possibility of their own souls.”

                                                                 ―Walt Whitman

“I like the scientific spirit—the holding off, the being sure but not too sure, the willingness to surrender ideas when the evidence is against them: this is ultimately fine—it always keeps the way beyond open—always gives life, thought, affection, the whole man, a chance to try over again after a mistake—after a wrong guess.”

                ― Walt Whitman, Camden Conversations

Song of Myself [Part I]

I Celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,

Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and

their parents the same,

I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,

Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,

Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,

I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,

Nature without check with original energy.

                                                                                ―Walt Whitman

The Voice of the Rain

And who art thou? said I to the soft-falling shower,

Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer, as here translated:

I am the Poem of Earth, said the voice of the rain,

Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land and the bottomless sea,

Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely form'd, altogether changed, and yet the same,

I descend to lave the drouths, atomies, dust-layers of the globe,And all that in them without me were seeds only, latent, unborn;

And forever, by day and night, I give back life to my own origin,

and make pure and beautify it;

(For song, issuing from its birth-place, after fulfilment, wandering,

Reck'd or unreck'd, duly with love returns.)

                                                                                  ―Walt Whitman

O Captain My Captain!

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills;

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding;

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head;

It is some dream that on the deck,

You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;

The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;

From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

                                                                                ―Walt Whitman

When I Heard At the Close of Day

When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv'd

with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for me that follow'd;

And else, when I carous'd, or when my plans were accomplish'd, still I was not happy;

But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health,

refresh'd, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,

When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the morning light,

When I wander'd alone over the beach, and undressing, bathed, laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,

And when I thought how my dear friend, my lover, was on his way coming,

O then I was happy;

O then each breath tasted sweeter--and all that day my food nourish'd me more

--and the beautiful day pass'd well,

And the next came with equal joy--and with the next, at evening, came my friend;

And that night, while all was still, I heard the waters roll slowly continually up the shores,

I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands, as directed to me, whispering, to congratulate me,

For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night,

In the stillness, in the autumn moonbeams, his face was inclined toward me,

And his arm lay lightly around my breast--

and that night I was happy.

                                                                                      ―Walt Whitman

Crossing Brooklyn Ferry [excerpt]

Flood-tide below me! I watch you face to face;

Clouds of the west! sun there half an hour high! I see you also face to face.

Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes! how curious you are to me!

On the ferry-boats, the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning

home, are more curious to me than you suppose;

And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence, are more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose

.

The impalpable sustenance of me from all things, at all hours of the day;

The simple, compact, well-join'd scheme--myself disintegrated, everyone disintegrated, yet part of the scheme:

The similitudes of the past, and those of the future;

The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings

--on the walk in the street, and the passage over the river;

The current rushing so swiftly, and swimming with me far away;

The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them;

The certainty of others--the life, love, sight, hearing of others.

Others will enter the gates of the ferry, and cross from shore to shore;

Others will watch the run of the flood-tide;

Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the heights of Brooklyn to the south and east;

Others will see the islands large and small;

Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour high;

A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see them,

Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring in of the flood-tide, the falling back to the sea of the ebb-tide.

It avails not, neither time or place ― distance avails not;

I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations hence;

I project myself ― also I return ― I am with you, and know how it is.

Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt;

Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd;

Just as you are refresh'd by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was refresh'd;

Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood, yet was hurried;

Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships, and the thick-stem'd pipes of steamboats, I look'd.

I too many and many a time cross'd the river, the sun half an hour high;

I watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls ― I saw them high in the air,

floating with motionless wings, oscillating their bodies,

I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies, and left the rest in strong shadow,

I saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging toward the south.

I too saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water,

Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams,

Look'd at the fine centrifugal spokes of light around the shape of my head in the sun-lit water,

Look'd on the haze on the hills southward and southwestward,

Look'd on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,

Look'd toward the lower bay to notice the arriving ships,

Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me,

Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops--saw the ships at anchor,

The sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride the spars,

The round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender serpentine pennants,

The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilot-houses,

The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the wheels,

The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sun-set,

The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolicsome crests and glistening,

The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of the granite store-houses by the docks,

On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely flank'd on each side by the barges―the hay-boat, the belated lighter,

On the neighboring shore, the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high and glaringly into the night,

Casting their flicker of black, contrasted with wild red and yellow light, over the tops of houses, and down into the clefts of streets.

These, and all else, were to me the same as they are to you;

I project myself a moment to tell ― I return.

                                                                                    ―Walt Whitman

When Lilacs Lase in the Dooryard Bloom’d

From Memories of President Lincoln [1-6]

1

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd,

And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,

I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,

Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,

And thought of him I love.

2

O powerful western fallen star!

O shades of night ― O moody, tearful night!

O great star disappear'd ― O the black murk that hides the star!

O cruel hands that hold me powerless ― O helpless soul of me!

O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul.

3

In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash'd palings,

Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,

With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,

With every leaf a miracle -- and from this bush in the dooryard,

With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,

A sprig with its flower I break.

4

In the swamp in secluded recesses,

A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

Solitary the thrush,

The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,

Sings by himself a song.

Song of the bleeding throat,

Death's outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know,

If thou wast not granted to sing, thou would'st surely die.)

5

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,

Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray debris,

Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass,

Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen,

Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards,

Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,

Night and day journeys a coffin.

6

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,

Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land,

With the pomp of the inloop'd flags with the cities draped in black,

With the show of the States themselves as of crepe-veil'd women standing,

With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night,

With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads,

With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,

With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn,

With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour'd around the coffin,

The dim-lit churches and the shuddering ― amid these you journey,

With the tolling bells' perpetual clang,

Here, coffin that slowly passes,

I give you a sprig of lilac.

                                                                                    ―Walt Whitman

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean

But I shall be good health to you nonetheless

And filter and fibre your blood.

                                                                                    ― Walt Whitman

To the Reader at Parting

Now, dearest comrade, lift me to your face,

We must separate ― ! take from my lips this kiss.

Whoever you are, I give it especially to you;

So long!--And I hope we shall meet again.

                                                                                   ―Walt Whitman

L'église Notre-Dame-de-Grâce, the church that Darrell Morrisey painted

L'église Notre-Dame-de-Grâce, this is  approximately where Darrell
Morrisey painted the church almost a century ago.

L'église Notre-Dame-de-Grâce is located on the corner of avenue Notre-Dame-de-Grâce and Boulevard Decarie in Montreal. This is the church that Darrell Morrisey painted in the 1920s; the painting, discovered about a year ago, is on the reverse of another of her paintings, one of a hay cart in Quebec. Seeing this painting, right away, I thought there was something familiar about this church, I Googled the image of the church and found L'église Notre-Dame-de-Grâce and recognized it; I used to live at 4100 Av Northcliffe just a block from the church, I used to wait for a bus across the street from the church and then proceed to work on Montreal’s South Shore. That was from 1976 to 1979. 

Written above the church entrance:
"Maria gratia plena, Dominus tecum" is Latin for
"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee." 

Darrell Morrisey's painting of L'église Notre-Dame-de-Grâce (1927-1930)

The bell tower, on the far right, was constructed in 1927; 
this helps us date Darrell Morrisey's painting of the
church, it is between 1927 and 1930, the year in which she died.

The entrance to the offices of St. Augustine Catholic Church
on the east side of the church, the bell tower was added in 1927.

The offices of L'église Notre-Dame-de-Grâce
are on the west side of the church.

                  

                                                                    Note the Sulpician logo on front of church


The Sulpicians have a long history in Montreal. This interests me because two of my great great uncles were educated at the Grand Séminaire de Montréal by the Sulpicians; the Sulpicians admitted into the seminary these two working class boys, Martin Callaghan, who became the first Montreal born pastor at St. Patrick's Church, and James Callaghan, a future pastor at St. Ann's Catholic Church in Griffintown; sons of immigrant Irish parents, the Sulpicians opened the doors of education, religion, and society to them. They were educated in Rome and Paris, and they were celebrated at home where they were respected and well known. While I am not deeply religious, I am interested in the churches of Montreal, churches of all faiths, and I am interested in my family history which is closely associated with the history of Montreal. The architect of L'église Notre-Dame-de-Grâce was John Ostell, interior stained glass windows are by Guido Nincheri, and the church is a part of the Sulpician history of Montreal. 

Note: Montreal and Saint Sulpice

NEWS

 

 11 JANUARY 2018

Show sharing Options

A Long History Celebrated

 

Last year, during the celebration of the 375th anniversary of the founding of the city of Montreal, a group of faithful Québecois devoted to the early founders came to France to trace the French heritage that first arrived in Canada in 1642.

The Sulpicians became intimately tied to the city of Montreal—then named Ville-Marie—when the Sulpician founder, M. Jean-Jacques OLIER, who was part of the founding Société de Notre-Dame de Montréal interested in establishing firm Christian roots in New France, joined in sending a contingent of French missionaries to Montreal in 1657, the year of his own death. Arriving in August 1657, the Sulpicians found the city on the verge of collapse. They immediately set about plans to stabilize and restore the city. They organized the streets, gave them names that endure to the present (such as, rue Note-Dame, rue Saint-Mathieu, rue Saint-Paul, etc.), and basically saved the city, which now survives as a thriving multicultural metropolis in Canada.

The Sulpicians consequently became known as the “lords of Montreal,” having been granted a “seigneury” by the King of France. Olier thus entered Montreal’s history, along with Paul de Chomedey de MAISONNEUVE, Jeanne MANCE and Jérôme Le Royer de la DAUVERSIÈRE, as a heroic figure of the past whose influence endures today. Only a few years ago, during renovations at the first Grand Séminaire Saint-Sulpice in Old Montreal, vestiges of the original city walls were discovered and have now been preserved for future generations.

During the summer of 2017, the Superior General, M. Ronald D. WITHERUP, PSS, welcomed a small group of pilgrims from Quebec at the Generalate in downtown Paris, where he was interviewed to comment on Olier’s incredible missionary vision and his desire to participate in the sending of missionaries to Montreal and New France. The group included Sylvie TRUDELLE, Clément FORTIN, Pierrette ROY, and Roger BÉDARD. Upon their return to Canada, they created a 36-minute video available on Facebook, which includes two short segments of the interview with Father Witherup.

Source: https://www.generalsaintsulpice.org/en/news/64-montreal-and-saint-sulpice