"The Wild Swans at Coole" - Poetic stanza.

"The Wild Swans at Coole"

Summary

With the trees "in their autumn beauty," the speaker walks down the dry woodland paths to the water, which mirrors the still October twilight of the sky. Upon the water float "nine-and-fifty swans." The speaker says that nineteen years have passed since he first came to the water and counted the swans; that first time, before he had "well finished," he saw the swans mount up into the sky and scatter, "whelling in great broken rings / Upon their clamorous wings." The speaker says that his heart is sore, for after nineteen autumns of watching and being cheered by the swans, he finds that everything in his life has changed. The swans, though, are still unwearied, and they paddle by in the water or fly by in the air in pairs, "lover by lover." Their hearts, the speaker says, "have not grown cold," and wherever they go they are attended by "passion or conquest." But now, as they drift over the still water, they are "Mysterious, beautiful," and the speaker wonders where they will build their nests, and by what lake's edge or pool they will "delight men's eyes," when he awakes one morning to find that they have flown away.

Form

"The Wild Swans at Coole" is written in a very regular stanza form: five six-line stanzas, each written in a roughly iambic meter, with the first and third lines in tetrameter, the second, fourth, and sixth lines in trimeter, and the fifth line in pentameter, so that the pattern of stressed syllables in each stanza is 434353. The rhyme scheme in each stanza is ABCBDD.

Commentary

One of the most unusual features of Yeats's poetic career is the fact that the poet came into his greatest powers only as he neared old age; whereas many poets fade ...

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Form

Commentary

One of the most unusual features of Yeats's poetic career is the fact that the poet came into his greatest powers only as he neared old age; whereas many poets fade after the first burst of youth, Yeats continued to grow more confident and more innovative with his writing until almost the day he died. Though he was a famous and successful writer in his youth, his poetic reputation today is founded almost solely on poems written after he was fifty. He is thus the great poet of old age, writing honestly and with astonishing force about the pain of time's passage and feeling that the ageless heart was "fastened to a dying animal," as he wrote in "Sailing to Byzantium." The great struggle that enlivens many of Yeats's best poems is the struggle to uphold the integrity of the soul, and to preserve the mind's connection to the "deep heart's core," despite physical decay and the pain of memory.

"The Wild Swans at Coole," part of the 1919 collection of the same name, is one of Yeats's earliest and most moving testaments to the heart-ache of living in a time when "all's changed." (And when Yeats says "All's changed, changed utterly" in the fifteen years since he first saw the swans, he means it--the First World War and the Irish civil war both occurred during these years.) The simple of the poem, recounting the poet's trips to the lake at Augusta Gregory's Coole Park residence to count the swans on the water, is given its solemn serenity by the beautiful nature imagery of the early stanzas, the plaintive tone of the poet, and the carefully constructed poetic stanza--the two trimeter lines, which give the poet an opportunity to utter short, heartfelt statements before a long silence ensured by the short line ("Their hearts have not grown old..."). The speaker, caught up in the gentle pain of personal memory, contrasts sharply with the swans, which are treated as symbols of the essential: their hearts have not grown old; they are still attended by passion and conquest.

Thomas Gray, "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" (1751), lns. 53-72

Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

The applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

In the progress of these stanzas, the notion of alternative stories is made radical. The initial image of the never-seen flower--the flower that could have been--challenges the scene of graveyard stillness and finality, but only for a moment; as soon as this image is offered, it becomes the new thematic resting-place for the lyric, which is suddenly like a hundred other lyrics about stillborn children. This new thematic stasis is challenged by yet another possibility: that the deceased might as well have been bloody criminals as saints. Suddenly the nature of elegy becomes confused . . . social terms are no longer adequate to inspire this elegy, since the dead might have oppressed as well as enabled their countrymen. The issue of community ("Would that he/she had lived for MY sake") is ambiguated; it seems that we can only wish the dead had lived for their own sake. Yet this is not sufficient either, because the way of all (or much) flesh leads to luxury and pride. What kind of elegy remains, except for an elegy for an elegy? This instability is characteristic of sensibility, where, as soon as the sensible person offers a RESPONSE to a situation, the response is questionable. Sensibility relies on an initial response to an impression, and every refinement that attempts to get closer in meaning to that impression suffers one more level of mediation.