TOO SACRED YEATS - Masculine and Feminine in the Ground of the Spirit

Too Sacred Yeats

  There is no better example of the powers of the massive poetic synthetic intelligence than W. B. Yeats unless it is William Blake. One of Yeats first works was the production (with Ellis) of the three volumes of Blake's Works with lithographs of the illustrated Books (1893). The existence of these two alone, not to speak of so many others, established in English the greatest literature. So much can and has been said of this, but we focus here on the deep backgrounds surrounding and involving these works of the imagination.

When the prophet Isaiah and the poet David speak of the ground of the spirit with their masculine daring, boldness and cutting edge intention, they say things no one would dare to say. In this they depict the ultimate daring of Messiah, who exceeds them in audacity. The masculine penetrating audacious speaking of the prophets, copied by Milton and Blake is in direct opposition to all the spiritual wisdom offered in the (feminine) occult creeds to which they likewise are tempted to submit. He commands the sea,  tells them, "you give them to eat," nothing but audacious, and this  to Paul,  "we sit together with him in heavenly places," and Peter, "rise up and walk." It is the audacity of the Exodus, "both horse and rider he has cast into the sea," the judgment of Balaam, obviated for a time, the OT equivalent  of  NT Saul suborning the faith of the first believers in these creeds, whose outcome is seduction and magic. It is the entire speaking of Yeshua, active and penetrating, saying Bereshith barah Elohim as audacity itself. In short, this masculine speaking is the opposite of its imitations and subversions catcalled in the onus of the desert religions: Jew, Christian, Muslim, but not Babylonian and pagan, a contrast of truth against the world that styles an ultimate conflict misunderstood in every way, so that you have to turn to Hieronymus Bosch to see the world being understood as the path of indulgence and sensuality and the enemy.  Masculine and Monotheism, Freud did not write, but a hundred others have. Of course Freud like Yeats had the Steinach operation to make his erectile performance Man up!

 The occult origins of fiction, philosophy, fantasy and science fiction  in all the university faculty clubs and writers cliques makes the search for the spirit a means of social control encouraging the feminine, but not masculine direct apprehension. But it is ever and always our desire to see face to face. There is no better lament for the lack of this than in the great critic and fellow of this love than Geoffrey Hartman, who himself overcame the residue of the holocaust. He writes movingly of his longing unattained. But apart of his sincere honesty in this confession, many others who have not seen have pretended to in the many egregori societies of the Golden Dawn sprung up. Therein the occult imitates the real prophetic by inversion so Isaiah would comment on Yeats' heavy involvement in this by saying, "those who pursue their own imaginations...who sit among the graves and spend their nights keeping secret vigil...who spread a table for Fortune and fill bowls of mixed wine for Destiny...are too sacred" (Isaiah 65). Paul on Mars Hill says "People of Athens! I see that in every way you are very religious" (Acts 17.22). Being too sacred means attributing metaphysical origins to acts by foretelling an imputed result were that action to occur, i.e., divination. That there may be acts not sacred enough is a possibility, but too sacred means a subversion of the human will by its passivity and hence abrogates responsibility for choices.

Passivity

 Anyone can say words.  If  however there is an inward reality where communication is not physical or spiritual, whose command is self-denial, self-sacrifice, self-surrender, which sounds passive, we must then beware the trick of words, which mean nothing in themselves. Direct speaking and seeing, sans trickery and vulnerability without the opposite, indirection, or feminizing the masculine, was a major concern of the renaissance where love was viewed as weakening the power of will.  Maybe you think they were kidding, but Sidney complains of his weakness in writing "whining poetry." Masculine states replaced with the feminized more socially justified views make it impossible to consider the masculine without compounding it with the most offensive depraved cases. It's not the masculine mind that offends, but the facetious mouth. Be as masculine as you want as long as you don't talk.

This passivity is a necessity underlying the attitude of magic among leaders who practice theosophical mania. Mathers, Blavatsky, Crowley, Huysmans, there is a long list. Their underlying premise is that to reach the ground of the spirit the man must be passive, a stance identified with the feminine, which it is said, more directly apprehends the face of light. So the man says with the woman in the creed,  "through me its unfailing wisdom takes form in thought and word," "I am guided moment by moment along the path of liberation," "I draw all things needful."  The sentences themselves are passive, "the kingdom of spirit is embodied in my flesh. This making passive is seen when the masculine and feminine are paired in metaphysical pics where the woman looks up, or over, or in, and the man looks out, signifying opposites of meditation and action, convincing in popular psychology, when the exoteric is contemplated with the esoteric. The exoteric is the outer world of fortune telling and divination; the esoteric is the inward state of idea, not however necessarily as a form of divination. Turning philosophy into divination was the essence of those secret societies as they practiced. Divination consumed Yeats, who wanted to know from his sources what to do, when to do it and why he did it.

Occult mechanisms supplied his images as much as bourbon inspired Faulkner, a quart a day, but there's  no to compare to Yeats. His mass of sexual insecurities, automatic writing, tarot, hypnotism, astrology, magic rituals, infused with a dramatic social life and philosophies collected in his folklore research--all reveal that after thirty years in the Golden Dawn he had no talent of his own for the gift of prophecy, unlike Balaam say. Divination is its own curse. It is too sacred. Drug prophecy the same.His wife George and the Stella Matutina were his graduate school and college wrapped in images of the gyre and its surrounds. That he turned this hodgepodge into the later immense melancholy nature of such appealing work is his own doing. His life divides this way and that before and after his marriage, itself a studied affair, in 1917.

For all her effort Yeats' wife Georgie made to influence him in child bearing, her prophecies of  children starting with the birth of their first child, daughter Ann, couldn't be more mistaken. That child was to have been...a boy, "the son..."the Arabic astronomer," the "avatar," "savior for Ireland" (Brenda Maddox, Yeats's Ghosts, 127). Yeats and George were to "reincarnate" a seer (Maddox, 123). For all that Yeats never spent much time with his eventual son, barrister Michael, until he was 17.    Georgie would have had their first child be a boy to fulfill Yeats' name and her position as wife and mother of a son. That this was foisted upon by her invented controllers of the automatic script all the while Yeats incorporated these controls into his poems, such as Thomas, Rose, Aymor,  "the symbols he had been receiving through the Script since his marriage' (Maddox, 131), is error. The child was a girl. That Yeats' last poems are informed with such philosophical weight from the whole process of this turbulence is just another event sustained  by his belief in the doctrines of fallen angels. It's not nice to say the Golden Dawn was a fallen angel auxiliary. The celebration of war and death it brought Yeats is the glory of its power. We hardly know anything else. War, magic and seduction are the essence of their doctrine (see Enoch I). If Yeats was an agent run by controllers who manipulated him to their own ends, Georgie was his controller and he a willing occult subject.

All the energies of Yeats' secret society sought the mechanics of foretelling. The odor of it hangs over him as much as opposite states hang over Blake, without contraries is no progression. Nobody wants to blame Yeats for gnostic stupidity, but he bought it.  Sources no one would want to admit sharing with Yeats include G.R.S. Mead, Paul Foster Case, Israel Regardie, S.L. Mathers and  intrigues for and against Crowley.  John Dee, Ron Hubbard, Jack Parsons, and their private gibberings show the delusions they suffered, but there is no formula for human existence or art. The foundation of Yeats' philosophy abstracted from its source has been spun off a hundred ways, for instance as the creed of the Liberal Catholic Church and BOTA, where the number series 0 to ten and the letters of the Hebrew alphabet concoct their own poetry. Yeats created a poetry out of rituals and symbols of Irish myth, Madam Blavatsky and the Golden Dawn with "lashings of Blake and bits of Freud, Boehme, Swedenborg and Nietzsche." (Brenda Maddox. Yeats' Ghosts, 89). 

  If you could know the future would you want to? This presumes it is worth, as Yeats sought, knowing the sex and destiny of his children and a thousand other questions for which he cast his hoary charts, when to get his tonsils out, on and on. Let it be said sooner rather than late that what you know you cannot unknow; so the future hung over Yeats like a sword, only countered by another cast of fate, whether Tarot, astrology or some other. Not to know the future and live in faith would be the single greatest gift. This betrayal of the inner for the outer trumps occurs dramatically in the novels of Charles Williams, another member of that society, and associate of Yeats.

So what is the nature of evil? Surprisingly it is not personal corruption notwithstanding its sins. Evil is spiritual in high places, connoting the asherahs of Palestine, the ashrams of Oregon. High places give a vista of control but themselves are a metaphor of counsels, rulers, leaders and their intrigues. Clubs. Some  striking cases occur. In the case of Balaam we at least know the purpose was payback, payoff, and power, influence with the king of Midianites.

It is probably worth adding that psychic gifts are notoriously uneven and uncertain, part of the passivity routine. There are cases. A clairvoyant will have no knowledge of the effects an eclipse, that is of the seen, but may know perfectly well exactly what had occurred in someone's mind that could not be seen. A pastor of prophetic utterance may be utterly unable to discern the dissembling elder in front of him, even to the point of  outright fraud. What matters most is not surety but accuracy.

The Grave of Yeats

 

Do not say Picasso could do it or Dekooning didn’t consult spirits to inflame his aerosol.

 It would ruin tourism and grave worship if Yeats is not where they say. Where he is is a whole other matter. Faith is a perquisite for burial in the church of Ireland. Since Yeats had none a face-saving remedy was found  in the body of Alfred Hollis, whose steel corset differed not much from Yeats' hernia truss, and clinched the identity that he was Yeats, according to Yeats’ sister. Out of nature he did not take his form from any natural thing, which a casket certainly is not, or a corset, lasting hundreds of years, preventing decay, never returning to the soil, enabling ossieries to dig for fear of more. The fear of one is the fear of all. Who thinks their grave will last the five hundred thousand years a casket does? There is room for archeology.

Yeats crowning blue-hair idiocy was to think he would rise from the grave with a fresh book of verse. Call it Uni-verse.  But his operation to improve his sex life was a close second. It ranks with the foibles of corporate industrialists. Yeats had the Steinach operation to cure his impotence that vexed his last decade. Steinach however had the  advantage of making him sterile. Freud had the operation too, which brings no doubt to the unsacred thoughts we had of poets. If it did not cure Yeats' impotence the operation did give rise to elevated thoughts among critics of his four senescent sexual liaisons after 1934, “whether he achieved full intercourse in any of them is the subject of continued speculation in Yeats scholarship.” (Brenda Maddox. The Secret Life of W. B. Yeats, 279). That takes criticism to its natural morbid level. Do not say Picasso could do it or Dekooning didn’t, consult spirits to inflame his aerosol. Wife George had the spirits dictate to him in 1919 that he must do it “twice a week!” After long abstinence the astrologer sought the right alignments.

No doubt Yeats intended to be buried at Sligo after a year’s interment at Roquebrune in France. However the 10 year lease on that plot was up, because mistaken for a five year lease, and it was during the war, but some mishap resulted in the body being exhumed and stored in an ossuary, alongside an Englishman buried that same day, one Alfred Hollis. The French government certified it was Yeats  in 1948 when transfer occurred to Eire, and it was all hushed up so don’t ask further if the case will stand. To be mistaken for Alfred Hollis! The family of Hollis believes the Sligo remains are their Alfred encased in a truss, steel corset at the core.

 For these reasons and  more it will not ruin tourism or grave worship to say that Yeats is not where they say he is. He is lost. Where he is is a whole other matter. The blue-hair deserved burial with the church of Ireland, but a prerequisite for burial there is faith. Remedy found  in the body of Alfred Hollis, whose steel corset differed not so much from Yeats' hernia truss, determined the identity according to Yeats’ sister. Yeats out of nature would not take his form from any natural thing, we repeat, which a casket certainly is not, or a corset, lasting hundreds of years, preventing decay, preventing return to the soil, enabling ossieries. The fear of one is the fear of all. But you can still move around in them.  Who thinks their grave will last the five hundred thousand years a casket does, raise your hand, if you can! There is room for one more archeologist.

Woe to me that I bear the news. Yeats never fit the biography of his lines, even if  he had his tubes tied, was a crypto fascist, thought like Pound and  had so many ailments before he died. These writers and their genes! Virginia and Leonard Woolf were whispering they would commit suicide together if Hitler took Bloomsbury! “The Black Tower” is not about eugenics, nor is “The Death of Cuchulain” about some lady in her robe, but his own. Yeats died and was buried in a pauper’s grave from which they dug  a simulacrum; it might as well have been wax sent to Ireland. He asked and became a trinket of Byzantium, a statue of  Reputation, which matters not much to the dead in the ground, or in the ossuary or the dust and smoke of crematoriums.

It shouldn’t be thought Yeats acted differently from his time and place. Pound dressed in “trousers made of green billiard cloth, a pink coat, a blue shirt, a tie hand-painted by a Japanese friend, an immense sombrero, a flaming beard cut to a point, and a single, large blue earring.” Indeed when Yeats threw Aleister Crowley down the stairs of the Temple Crowley wore “a black mask,  a MacGregor tartan kilt, a gilt pectoral cross, and a dagger at his knee” (12). They gave him a Goosey Gander, took him by the left leg and threw him down the stairs. But none of them would say their prayers. This was 1900, they dressed like pimps, but it gives Yeats a point of comparison for his blue hair. To compare with Blake, even if not so extreme, Yeats reports Blake threw  artists off their ladders at Westminster Abbey (Poems of William Blake, ed. by Yeats, xv).

Yeats’ cure for his idiocy was to ape the lusts of the young in dirty talk and  turning his wife into a  divine while he fell down at the feet of starlets and excess, all of which made it impossible for him to pass Go. Consumed by women and continually shifting eroticism from one ingénue to  another, older or younger, but not with wife George, his amanuensis, manager and caretaker, every crack brain literati at his age compounds sex energies with political intrigue to make lit or plays or  money with  anthologies to finance travel to the Riviera. Remember, this was before Epstein and pedo-island. The Nobel pride at the top of the middle aged world fears his last poem about flesh and age more than any politician and historian fears a poet, for the lines are honest and brutal, true as he lies in pain and iniquity, save always  for another one would dare to die, which we add to balance the perfevered Dawn, medium, vision, repeated lives and poems, as if they were women wanting to come to know the truth. This we respect deeply, for who comes to know truth but in age?

 

 

The Resurrection of Yeats

 

New York, London : This week Yeats revealed how in the seventy years since his reburial he has continually revised the whole of his work for reissue with significant new additions. 

 

When Yeats engagingly claimed to continue writing after death, Under Uber Ben  was the title of the first poem he proposed from the grave, written when his blood pressure failed. It has been reprinted many times since. Those long gyres run like a horn through  the eternal poem.  He said many times man lives and dies / Between his two eternities. Poetry, now the new religion, but without canonical text, must correct some of these revisions in which the plural in the poem is wrong and the gender, but otherwise asks, how can a man be so deceived and make so much beauty?

 

Among Yeats’ betters David says the dead don’t praise unless they get raised. All right then the logic goes, all men are dead. Yeats is silent. Yeats is dead. The number one poet to populate the Under Ben was buried first in France nine years before he was reburied under Ben. In that sense he rose, but what write, opting for short quatrains and terse couplets so multiply allusive nobody can exactly say. Don’t you love those ghosts who gouge their plates and call in to say they’re going to write? Will it be new verse or old?

 

After Under Uber Ben the next work to appear was in the new web journal Between the States where he wrote that famous sonnet, ”From the Underground.” The whole volume was to be titled  Last Poems in the uNDeRGoNe series as a pun on Maud Gonne’s name. Maude, his lover and sometime devotee, if he has finally tamed her, is his sometime muse. Yeats tamed women but they broke him. This was to have been written in the third person as a transcendence equally upon  the fact of looking back on life and as an improvement of those short lines he so perfected in that song of the clippedty clopped “White Horse.” “Clippedty clop,” it went, or “clippie clop,” to the tune of Roundup Time. Somewhere in the afterlife Yeats got enamored of the old west and blues.

  I’m comin out I’m comin out

there gonna be a shout.

I comin out I comin out

there gonna be a shout,

there be a mortis interrupt,

when them doggies mount up.

 

That was of course one last dig at Gertrude Stein who had queried from her death bed to forestall the dirge, otherwise he invoked all the other famous truants of the death bed, Borges, Rimbaud, Stevens, really anybody who had time to listen.  Pass by!  was the motto on his stone, but now he says, “Not on your life, horseman, not on your life:

 

There gonna be a great noise

when those boys rise,

so rise boys.

 

Grave diggers of Yeats work really hard to protect him from the world. Primal tales are read around the grave openings even when there is doubt he is there. But if not there, where? It proves a greater need to thrust the  buried men / Back in the human mind again than we had thought. There is a huge problem with backlog. New York houses will not have time to publish living poets if Blake and Wordsworth rise. Blake had easily three times the work than actually appeared. That doesn’t moot the question about the lost cantos of Spenser, Shelly’s corpus buried at sea and where can this business be restricted to merely first ranks? What if all the merciful euthanasia of works blessedly silent should now speak? Soon they’ll be driving round the atmosphere, in and out the internet, broadcast, rebroadcast in space.

 

It shows what we are. Many times men brief parting from those dear / … the worst man has to fear. Who could know? Here he comes! There he goes! It takes as much to believe in this as it does in the final resurrection of the dead. If only we believe there is a fantastic long-visaged company / That air in immortality. What would we do then?

 

Does this herculean labor never end? When Yeats did his nine years in the ground the first time, the rest remained. Nine years and then probation! Bury, rebury. It’s going to add whole new concepts to our knowledge. Hardly were those words out when the only one that can really save us would come and turn the system upside down. Then the Lord himself descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of  the trump is how the old text reads. And here we go again. We’ll be asking about the meaning of second chances, merciful paroles, dyings at home for tea. Eternity sightings are what we’d have to call them eve to morn. Really it’s a conundrum, what would anybody do from the grave? Go reround reround retestify? Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all!

 

Aside from a love of music and the play, this entertainment from the grave, will it complete our partial man? A lot of questions are raised if it’s not just poets. Won’t musicians come? I had a feeling! Yeats’ heterodox age, its eyes long blind, who can avoid saying it long lingered like a fly when it said it would accomplish fate, / Know his work or choose his mate. That’s the story they give the resurrectionists who used to steal fresh graves at night and take the bodies for research. A hundred a head was the rate. Will you have them bring it all back? Where’s the space? That’s where nature plays a trump in self defense. Some say there are more people alive on the earth right now than in a previous millennium. Where will we put them? Rise up son of clay. Is that the answer or does it just postpone the inevitable?  He says this later. We say it sooner. How many days do you plan to sleep?  It’s almost the same as those unfortunates who go to heaven on the very last day. There they are rejoicing to have finally made it through oblivion to paradise when about twenty minutes later they get the news that it’s back down to earth again, that heaven’s not the final final destiny. And those living when the event occurs, who didn’t ever really get to die, what are they going to say to those whose eyes, ears and bodies are marked with the chalk dust from long lines, who stood and waited, even if the wounds have healed, what will they say when they’re all together comparing notes of death, I didn’t…actually…die? It would be enough to kill them right there.

 

Why waste time? You could raise your hands right now. Still alive? Too radical a posture? Denies depravity and perversity. None of this is  the work or vision of an ant. But how we do it is everything. It makes the rhyme bring up "the soul of man to God." Bring up the man, bring him up. Bring him up before the profane perfection of mankind disembowels medieval earth of all the "rest.” Did you know the old Yeats had it in him?

 

In the midst of reevaluation we should also visit the tomb of Swift and Sterne to see them rise.  One hopes for a little pyrotechnics. Draw up a chair but not too close. Somebody needs to  make a way for Yeats to stand. By the way Ben Bulben needs some work. What do you say to volcanic activity appropriate for the day? We have the day, the sun shine and the rain and then we have the night. Drops pour off stone and under  an umbrella by image with his arms folded behind his backstands. I seen him in the Lake County pretty sure. We stand around, no need keep upright. This is an army of leaf sprout. After long age the leaves must write if the stones cry out, ears shoot up from the grave Listen to the blab of the pave.  I hope no rabbits are out. One poet at a time you say. Do you think they even listen to each other? This write, wood split sky or sky like wood over that mortal caught between his two. Allowing for amnesia and the cross, a former and an ignorance of last, we shall vent our death in a present measure of simplicity upon Blake, who we again learn is waiting to sprout when Hopkins bursts to flame. It’s a shame there was no mention of this before.

 

Down the barrel of a spine the seed coat scraped, covered with soil and the mind matured as the whole thing baked. One good thing the body is, other than wearing out. This reconstitutes science. Will you trade that coat, that tattered coat upon a stick or wear it like a faithful sheik sidekick one last breath? Costume takes in a dawn of wounds and blood. But old age? That’s the alternative, one final alien conquest along with death.

 

What do bodies do for entrance, exit, birth? Rebear birth like an underlayment of cement so it won’t crack, rebar the storm that passed, the ground wet draw the soaked grass over feet? We love the earth. There’s no repeat needed that gets enough. We never get enough.  No chill. No night. Consider what you learn. What’s love got to do?  Eternity begins when you rise, one, one, when you lie down, one  is the image of two.

 

So after all you think he’ll rise? Opinion polls take a look to believe the effort superhuman, but the belief is wrong. Here’s where all the syntax loads a gun. The lion’s mane, the twists of fate, the figure eight, the gist that the sinews of the men of ancient Ireland  and the North made peace of for fear and life and had a chance to walk with the Dayman didn’t wait. Consider the urging, sea, the brooding hill, the darkness that pacified pain and forgetfulness of the creatures’ sacrifice. They gripped the hand of their ancestors and got progeny. Those who revisited waste and ken regot bodies and reconstituted mind. But then, when his poem was two shapes of the one flight, not deep in the cosmos far reaches, no, but here in the immediate ground from the grave, they stepped into  light. Day and night that back leg came out of darkness and  body stepped into light.

The Collected Poems of W, A Review

New York, London: This week in London, seventy years after his reburial, Yeats released the complete revision of his work with new additions. 

Under Uber Ben that first poem from the grave was reprinted many times. He should be glad his blood pressure failed. Such poetry is new religion without canonical text. Long gyres interweave a horn. As he said, many times man lives and dies / Between his two eternities. This first version erred err in the plural, but notably among betters consider who said that the dead don’t praise unless they’re raised, which logic proves that since all men are dead and Yeats is silent Yeats is dead.  But if dead still writes? The poet of the Under Ben buried first in France, nine years later was reburied under Ben. Bone quatrains, epigrams and couplets, disembodied voice, will it be the new verse? In that sense he rose.

Under Uber Ben the next appeared in Between States, from the Underground.The whole volume spoke, Last Poems  uNDeRGoNe, a duet of Maud Gonne equally transcendent  looking back as a preview in “Song of the White Horse” as forward in afterward.

There’ll be a mortis interrupt,

when those doggies mount up.

That was a dig at Queries from Death to Forestall the Dirge. Otherwise truants from Socrates and Borges to Rimbaud and Stevens say. Pass by!,  the motto says on his stone. 

Grave diggers of Yeats protect him from the world. Primal tales give out he is not there. But if not, where? It proves a need to thrust the  buried men / Back in the human mind again,  except for the problem with backlog. How will living poets stand if Blake and Wordsworth rise and write? Blake alone had three times the work than actually appeared. Add in the lost cantos of the Faerie Queene.  Then what merciful euthanasia of history and silence should others speak? Brief parting from those dear / … the worst man has to fear?  Not quite. Here he comes! There he goes! The fantastic long-visaged company /  airs in immortality.

Herculean labors end, but Yeats’ nine years probate in the ground remain. Bury, rebury, add new knowledge. Hardly were those words out of that old text when the Lord himself descended from heaven with a shout. So here we go. What would anybody do out of the grave? Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all!

A lot of questions are raised if it’s not just poets but musicians.  Echo, reecho, a hundred a head. Will you have them back? Where’s the space? Nature trumps in self defense. Some say there are more people alive on the earth today than in all the millenniums. Where will we put them? Rise up son of clay; that’s the answer.

What of those unfortunates who get to heaven last, rejoicing to have made the cut when twenty minutes later it’s back down to earth? Heaven’s waiting for that event to come. And what about those who didn’t get to die, what can they say to all those queues who stood and waited, wept and prayed, even if the wounds have healed, “I didn’t actually…die?” Bring the rhyme up soul of man. Bring up the man, bring him up before the profane perfection of mankind.

 

Draw up a chair. But not too close. Care for some volcanic dust? We have the day, and then we have the night. I seen backstands in the Lake Country again. Drops of stone umbrella fold arms behind heads. I seen backstands in the Lake County again. No need keep up. There is leaf array. Stones and ears shoot up. Do not listen them, the sky of mortals caught between his two. We vent death like Hopkins bursts into flame.

Down the barrel the seed coat scraped. Covered with soil, mind matured. One good thing the body is, other than wearing out. Will you trade that coat or wear it one last breath? A dawn of wounds in old age and blood? We love the earth. No one gets enough. We never get enough. We need eternity to chill. Rebar the storm, draw wet ground like a blanket of soaked grass over feet. Consider what you learn.  Eternity begins to rise before you’re born and when you lie down one is the image of two.

Opinion polls think the effort superhuman, but the belief is wrong. The lion’s mane, the twists of fate, the gist that sinews ancient Eire with North-made peace was chance? The Dayman didn’t wait. He gripped the hand of  ancestors and got progeny. He took the sea and urged the hill, forgot strife, creatures’ sacrifice,  revisited waste, regot bodies, reconstituted mind, and when his poem in two shapes of one flight was in the immediate ground, he stepped from the grave into  light. Day and night that back leg came out of darkness and body stepped into light.

Memory is even trickier than occult deceit, as if there were no such fact as a datum remembered, but merely versions. So an event exists only in interpretations. Truth in the relative mind is like memory, a denial of natural law. Gravity is like Truth made weak in those who profess the coming magnetic levitation. Memory however is the highest fact of our existence.

This directly contrasts  the creeds above, and Yeats' experience, which  are however attractive and appealing. beautiful. How else understand can the LCC, "hold the fatherhood of God, the brotherhood of man. We hold that we do serve him best when best we serve our fellow man. So shall his blessing rest on us and peace for ever more." What more appealing statement can there be than a subtle encouragement of passivity?