AN IRISH AIRMAN FORESEES HIS DEATH
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
-W.B. Yeats

I have always been drawn to this poem and find the lines
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
particularly poignant. They have led to many interesting discussions with my classes over decades of teaching 🙂
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Truly.
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I like those lines that Anne mentioned. Yeats was so special to Gladys Taber that I early on was partial to him and yet I can’t help but believe “that lovely impulse of delight” among the clouds is what was almost an addiction to him and others of my father’s generation of brave flyboys.
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I thought it was Keats that she loved so much. But this poem is very interesting. Sounds like he has a death wish. (not Yeats per se, but his narrator)
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He wrote it in memorial to his pilot friend who did die in the war; is it then the voice of the friend who is speaking in the poem? It’s really an interesting composition, to have the friend who in real life already dead, foreseeing that death…
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I’m sure Gladys loved Keats too but it was Yeats whose framed portrait stood on her writing desk. I wish I could go back through all her books on my bookshelf devoted to her to find where she wrote of him and the picture of her desk might be in the large book of pictures of her house so I’ll try to do that soon. And that takes me back in time, before online book searches, when I made a beeline for my favorite bookseller at Nashville’s monthly antique day at the fairgrounds to see if he’d been able to locate another of her books for me. It certainly is easier now!
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My but that’s a sad poem.
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