No Second Troy
Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?
I’ve always liked Yeats, but never felt like I really understood most of what he said.
After reading the Iliad and the Odyssey this year I get the “another Troy” reference. And the tightened bow.
But I wonder about how many Troys are left to burn.
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