“What can be explained is not poetry.” – W. B. Yates
When I checked my mail today and found a message Monk had sent me in the middle of the night it struck me as odd, until I opened it to photos of William Butler Yates’ grave under Ben Bulben in County Sligo, Ireland. Credit for photos and posting of the Yates masterpiece, The Mountain Tomb, goes to my good friend Monk.
The Mountain Tomb
Pour wine and dance, if manhood still have pride,
Bring roses, if the rose be yet in bloom;
The cataract smokes on the mountain side,
Our Father Rosicross is in his Tomb.
Pull down the blinds, bring the fiddle and clarionet
Let there be no foot silent in the room
Nor mouth with kissing nor the wine unwet
Our Father Rosicross is in his tomb.
In vain, in vain; the cataract still cries
The everlasting taper lights the gloom;
All wisdom shut into its onyx eyes
Our Father Rosicross sleeps in his tomb.
William Butler Yates
I will hoist one for you at the Hollywood tonight, Monk. Safe travels, my friend.