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    Lapis Lazuli

    by William Butler Yeats
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    I HAVE heard that hysterical women say
    They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow.
    Of poets that are always gay,
    For everybody knows or else should know
    That if nothing drastic is done
    Aeroplane and Zeppelin will come out.
    Pitch like King Billy bomb-balls in
    Until the town lie beaten flat.

    All perform their tragic play,
    There struts Hamlet, there is Lear,
    That's Ophelia, that Cordelia;
    Yet they, should the last scene be there,
    The great stage curtain about to drop,
    If worthy their prominent part in the play,
    Do not break up their lines to weep.
    They know that Hamlet and Lear are gay;
    Gaiety transfiguring all that dread.
    All men have aimed at, found and lost;
    Black out; Heaven blazing into the head:
    Tragedy wrought to its uttermost.
    Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages,
    And all the drop-scenes drop at once
    Upon a hundred thousand stages,
    It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.

    On their own feet they came, or On shipboard,'
    Camel-back; horse-back, ass-back, mule-back,
    Old civilisations put to the sword.
    Then they and their wisdom went to rack:
    No handiwork of Callimachus,
    Who handled marble as if it were bronze,
    Made draperies that seemed to rise
    When sea-wind swept the corner, stands;
    His long lamp-chimney shaped like the stem
    Of a slender palm, stood but a day;
    All things fall and are built again,
    And those that build them again are gay.

    Two Chinamen, behind them a third,
    Are carved in lapis lazuli,
    Over them flies a long-legged bird,
    A symbol of longevity;
    The third, doubtless a serving-man,
    Carries a musical instmment.

    Every discoloration of the stone,
    Every accidental crack or dent,
    Seems a water-course or an avalanche,
    Or lofty slope where it still snows
    Though doubtless plum or cherry-branch
    Sweetens the little half-way house
    Those Chinamen climb towards, and I
    Delight to imagine them seated there;
    There, on the mountain and the sky,
    On all the tragic scene they stare.
    One asks for mournful melodies;
    Accomplished fingers begin to play.
    Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,
    Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay.
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