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The sky of the blood and the moon of Yeats

PISSARRO - The Girl with stick

Blessed this place, and still more blessed is
this tower, a power
arrogant and bloody
arose from that race,
expressing, and dominate,
Similar to these walls
arose from these storm-beaten shacks - have set
Nell'irrisione
A potent emblem, and singing on
Rima rima
Nell'irrisione a time
Half dead at the top of the tower


II of Alexandria was a lighthouse, that of Babylon
image of the heavens in motion, a logbook of the journey of the sun and moon;
And Shelley had his towers, which he once called the crowned powers of thought.

I declare that this tower is my sign;
declare that the sequence of this spiral staircase that rises a spiral staircase and went is my ancestral
There are increased that Goldsmith and the Dean, Berkeley and Burke.

Swift beating his chest in cryptic frenzy blinded
Because the heart in his chest swollen with blood he had dragged down humanity,
Goldsmith deliberately sucking the cup honey of his spirit,

And Burke by the head height showed Statao it be a tree,
That this unconquerable labyrinth of birds, century after century,
Na drops dead leaves that mathematical equality;
E Berkeley appointed by God, all things that proved to be a dream,
That this absurd, pragmatic sow the world with a litter far from solid.
would evaporate instantly if not the spirit would change its theme;

SAEV Indignatio and the wages of,
The force that gives our blood and state the magnanimity of his desire;
Everything that is not God consumed by the fire of the intellect.

II
The purity of the unclouded moon
Like a dart body has its radius
on the floor. And seven centuries have come and gone,
And it is pure, the blood of innocence
He did not leave stains.
on earth fills with blood, the soldier, the murderess and the executioner,
one day have stayed here for a handout
newspaper, or in blind fear or hatred of the abstract,
and shed blood, but not a single jet
He could spring up there: the smell of blood
On the scale of my fathers! And we do not shed blood
We gather here with a shudder and scream
drunk for the moon.

IV
Award shiny or dusty windows, press the heavens seem
flooded with moonlight,
Butterfly as turtles, butterflies such as peacocks,
Two moths if they are on the wing.
Every modern nation is perhaps similar to the tower,
Half dead at the top? No matter what I said,
Why is the wisdom of their deaths, something a contrary
the life and power,
Like anything that has the color of blood,
E 'of their live, but no color
can reach the face of the moon
QUnado I looked in glory from a cloud.

from 33 poems by Yeats - ed. Mondadori