Down by the Salley Gardens
Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.
In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs.
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.
W.B.Yeats
Published in Crossways, 1889; the poet was 24.
Salley is an old word for willows...
I'm posting this because it's from an authoritative published version of the poem, not the hit-or-miss internet. Note the long lines--think about how they can be sung. Also, that "tree" is in the singular ("a man is like a tree", as from Psalms), and "I being young and foolish" (the word "being," as Anthony noted in class). Also, in line four, the "would" rather than "did," which was incorrect in the version I gave you. The differences are subtle--but important as to the meaning (they also show how songs can wander and change...) Finally, there's no "It was" at the very beginning--the song starts as above--which makes the first line of the initial verse parallel to the first line of the second. The simplicity here is water-clear--and hard-won...
I do like singing it with a repeat of the first verse...
2 comments:
Very beautiful, Tony. Nice to see the source. Yes, the simplicity, as you said, is water-clear and hard-won. Yeats, always a favorite.
Our class discussion, last Thursday, about lines from "Barbara Allen" brought to mind another Yeats poem. The first stanza, in particular, with "A line will take us hours maybe..." A bit long, but I've included the whole poem.
W.B. Yeats, "Adam's Curse," from "In the Seven Woods" (1904)
We sat together at one summer's end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, 'A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.'
And thereupon
That beautiful mild woman for whose sake
There's many a one shall find out all heartache
On finding that her voice is sweet and low
Replied, 'To be born woman is to know-
Although they do not talk of it at school-
That we must labour to be beautiful.'
I said, 'It's certain there is no fine thing
Since Adam's fall but needs much labouring.
There have been lovers who thought love should be
So much compounded of high courtesy
That they would sigh and quote with learned looks
Precedents out of beautiful old books;
Yet now it seems an idle trade enough.'
We sat grown quiet at the name of love;
We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.
I had a thought for no one's but your ears:
That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love;
That it had all seemed happy, and yet we'd grown
As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.
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