The Mountain Tomb

“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.



About Jim Brennan

Jim is a Philadelphia-based writer, author, poet and editor for the Schuylkill Valley Journal.
This entry was posted in poetry, Running and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.