W B Yeats 分享了 Yeats2015 的相片。
Yeats on the London Underground.
London folks the first set of #Yeats2015 Poems on the Underground are now in situ. Have you spotted any?
The March poems feature the final stanza of 'Sailing to Byzantium', Yeats's tribute to the timeless power of imagination; and his popular love poem, 'He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven'.
See a full list at http://www.tfl.gov.uk/…/culture-an…/poems-on-the-underground
Irish Poems on the Underground- celebrating Yeats2015
Poems on the Underground will be celebrating the 150th anniversary of the birth of the great Irish poet W.B. Yeats throughout the year.
Our first set of poems for March 2015 features the final stanza of 'Sailing to Byzantium', Yeats's tribute to the timeless power of imagination; and his popular love poem, 'He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven'.
Also featured are a translation of Antoine O Raifteiri's Irish verses by Lady Gregory, Yeats's friend and close associate in the Irish revival; Louis MacNeice's epigraph to Holes in the Sky (1944); and poems by the contemporary Irish poets Eavan Boland and Paula Meehan.
The poems will be displayed in Tube trains from 2 March 2015.
Irish Poems on the Underground - celebrating Yeats2015
Sailing to Byzantium
That is no country for old men. The young In one another’s arms, birds in the trees —Those dying generations—at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect. An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium. O sages standing in God’s holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity. Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.