Yeats Lodge

Drumcliff, Ireland
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98%

Satisfaction Excellent
Excellent
66%
18
Very Good
25%
7
Average
3%
1
Poor
0%
0
Terrible
0%
0

N/A

Value Score No Data

Good For Couples
  • Families90
  • Couples100
  • Solo0
  • Business0

More about Drumcliff

Photos

Parke's castle & Lough GillParke's castle & Lough Gill

Maeves' grave in Carrowmore and CarrowkeelMaeves' grave in Carrowmore and Carrowkeel

Maeves' grave in Carrowmore and CarrowkeelMaeves' grave in Carrowmore and Carrowkeel

Maeves' grave in Carrowmore and CarrowkeelMaeves' grave in Carrowmore and Carrowkeel

Travel Tips for Drumcliff

Yearts Country

by MAIGO

"Ben Bulben"

To the north of the Drumcliffe village,
Ben Bulben 517m flattopped hill.

W B Years (Irish poet) as aschool boy in London,
longed for his native Sligo,
and as an adult he often returned here.
He lovingly describes the county in his Reveries over Childhood
and youth, his portry "In a sence", Yeats said,
" Sligo has always been my home".

"His gravestone"

W B Yearts (1865-1939) was buried in 1948, having died at Roquebrune
in the south of France, his grave is just north of the porch.
He wished to be buried the foot of Ben Bulben.
The inscription which he himself composed,

Cast a cold eye
On life, on death:
Horseman, pass by !

"High Cross and Round Tower"

There is a 10thC High Cross and a stump remains
of a round tower in the churchyard.
The grandfather of Yeats was for many years the parish
priest here.

Drumcliff, where WB Yeates is burried

by Alain_Smeets

"Great scenery"

"A small church"

The scenery in Ireland changes in front of your eyes, each time you see something different, from small country roads between meadows to these mountains around Drumcliff. We made a short stop on this place when we were driving from Inishcrone towards Donegal. Why? Well WB Yeates is buried her, and he was a famous writer. Not that I know any of his poems.

After this short visit we continue our way towards Donegal.

"Some poems by W.B Yeates"

The Stolen child

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries.

Come away O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you
can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by the furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.

Come away O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you
can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From the ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.

Come away O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you
can understand.

Away with us he's going
The solem-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.

For he comes the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand
From a world more full of weeping than he
can understand.

.

September 1913

WHAT need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone;
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet they were of a different kind
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save:
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave;
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were,
In all their loneliness and pain
You'd cry 'Some woman's yellow hair
Has maddened every mother's son':
They weighed so lightly what they gave,
But let them be, they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave

.

All Things can tempt me.

ALL things can tempt me from this craft of verse:
One time it was a woman's face, or worse-
The seeming needs of my fool-driven land;
Now nothing but comes readier to the hand
Than this accustomed toil. When I was young,
I had not given a penny for a song
Did not the poet sing it with such airs
That one believed he had a sword upstairs;
Yet would be now, could I but have my wish,
Colder and dumber and deafer than a fish.

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