Broken Dreams (by W.B. Yeats)
William Butler Yeats, 1908
Broken Dreams
There is grey in your hair.
Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath
When you are passing;
But maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing
Because it was your prayer
Recovered him upon the bed of death.
For your sole sake - that all heart's ache have known,
And given to others all heart's ache,
From meagre girlhood's putting on
Burdensome beauty - for your sole sake
Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom,
So great her portion in that peace you make
By merely walking in a room.
Your beauty can but leave among us
Vague memories, nothing but memories.
A young man when the old men are done talking
Will say to an old man, "Tell me of that lady
The poet stubborn with his passion sang us
When age might well have chilled his blood."
Vague memories, nothing but memories,
But in the grave all, all, shall be renewed.
The certainty that I shall see that lady
Leaning or standing or walking
In the first loveliness of womanhood,
And with the fervour of my youthful eyes,
Has set me muttering like a fool.
You are more beautiful than any one,
And yet your body had a flaw:
Your small hands were not beautiful,
And I am afraid that you will run
And paddle to the wrist
In that mysterious, always brimming lake
Where those What have obeyed the holy law
paddle and are perfect. Leave unchanged
The hands that I have kissed,
For old sake's sake.
The last stroke of midnight dies.
All day in the one chair
From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged
In rambling talk with an image of air:
Vague memories, nothing but memories.
* * * * *
To read a Jesus Crisis blog about Yeats, visit
Y is for Yeats (my favorite poets from A to Z - volume 25)
For more Yeats, we suggest these volumes from Amazon:
Posted by Jesus Crisis at 10/13/2008 7:38 PM 
Categories: British, Writing, Yeats (William Butler), 1900s, Irish
Categories: British, Writing, Yeats (William Butler), 1900s, Irish
What a beautiful poem. Quiet, timeless, and beautiful... I absolutely love the final lines:
The last stroke of midnight dies.
All day in the one chair
From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged
In rambling talk with an image of air:
Vague memories, nothing but memories.
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Thanks, Dianne!
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See I am here... leaving a comment. I had already read Dianne's comment and agree the last three line are very beautiful.
But I like the whole exploration of the idea that there is beauty in imperfection. That not everything in life that has meaning needs to be perfect. And that in love it is often the imperfections we remember lovingly about someone. Because that makes a whole person.... all the subtle nuances.
Anyway.. thanks for posting more Whitman.. I haven't read enough of him I'm sad to say.
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Broken dreams and vague memories make me feel wistful.
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When poets write of another romantically or sexually, I always wonder who served as their muse. Who was this once stunning beauty with the single flaw who lives in his memory?
But in a way I feel like I could be that woman--not that I was necessarily that beautiful!--but that I was once that young and now am old and it's my own memories of myself and broken dream...or maybe it's just the first line about grey hair!
Got to love the Irish! If I ever go back to Ireland, I will definitely do much more literary touring! Thank you, JC, for Mr. Yeats!
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Thank you, Pinky!
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