In Memory of W. B. Yeats
He disappeared in the dead of winter, with the brooks frozen, the airports almost deserted, and the day of his death a dark cold day kept only by the instruments that measure such things. The middle section grants that Ireland has her madness and her weather still, that poetry makes nothing happen, and that it survives instead as a way of happening. Written in New York weeks after Yeats died in January 1939.
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