The Golden Age is a nostalgicically-themed poem written by William Butler Yeats that reflects on the loss of innocence and the passing of time. The poem describes a time in the past that is now gone, and the speaker longs for a return to the simplicity and joy of that era.
The poem begins by setting the scene, describing a time when the world was "new and golden" and "all things seem'd alive." The speaker reminisces about this time, recalling how everything was full of "delight" and "mirth." The speaker describes the world as being full of "familiar" and "simple" pleasures, such as singing and dancing.
As the poem progresses, the speaker reflects on how the world has changed since this Golden Age. The speaker notes that the world is now "old and cold," and that "all things now seem dead." The speaker laments the loss of innocence and simplicity, and longs for a return to the carefree days of the past.
Despite the sadness of the poem, there is also a sense of hope and longing for the return of the Golden Age. The speaker speaks of how the world could be "new and golden" once again, if only people could find a way to return to the joy and simplicity of the past. The poem ends on a hopeful note, with the speaker stating that "all things shall be mended" and that the world will be "new and golden" once more.
Overall, The Golden Age is a poignant and nostalgicically-themed poem that reflects on the loss of innocence and the passing of time. The speaker longs for a return to a simpler, more joyful time, and expresses hope that the world can be "new and golden" once again.
The Golden Age
Do all, in brief, that honest men abhor, And England hails another Senator. He lures the easy, makes the fat his spoil, Pares the lean wage of proletarian toil; Swindles the widow of her hoarded mite, Drags the poor pensioner once more to fight; Robs age of rest, and youth of prospects fair, Plunges the sanguine bridegroom in despair; Severs the ties made sacred long by home, And sends the son from sire across the foam; Dashes the faith of plighted swain and maid, And helps alone the cynic sexton's spade: Does all that well beseems a Fallen Star- It needs a Lucifer to fall so far! Whilst our domestic fortunes thus obey All-searching Gold's demoralising sway, We hug the limits of our puny shore, And Glory knows our once great name no more. Whilst yet the bloom of boyhood matched his cheek, And all his duty was to master Greek. Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens. From zone to zone the Golden Gospel flew, And in its train mankind obedient drew. Ofttimes would ruthless winds or torrents raze The ripening fruit of toilsome nights and days.
Why, Cato's means but one small hearth sustain. One chance awaits you: Croesus has a drag. The swift sure axe resounds Through the green stretch of his ancestral grounds. If these whet your appetite for more, we can highly recommend edited by Norman Ault, a bumper collection of both famous and obscure Elizabethan songs and poems. His was the pious wish, by daily care And safe degrees to make his hearth more fair; His the ambition-far too meek to roam- To swell the simple luxuries of home; By loving thrift to deck his comely spouse With some poor gem, the summit of her vows; To instruct his boys in every generous art Which trains the man to act a shining part; By culture's aid to see his daughters armed With each fair grace that in their mother charmed; Year after year, as strength and vigour waned, To find his fondest forecasts all attained; And then, since faithful to the final stage, Doff the hard harness from the back of age. The happy tidings, spreading through the West, Fires each maternal mercenary breast. Nor needed any troublesome defense Against his neighbor's insolence.
He was influential in creating a style based on impressions and emotion, featuring elongated fingers and vibrant color and brushwork. You know the fury of the hand that steers; And what were Britain with no House of Peers? Whose Arborist, Chomsky Reduced the Babel sentence From Hard Labor To thresh Linguistic Trees Of Grammar, Universal: Greek, Celt Druid, Norse, Kabalist, Spanned time: the Transversal, That sapped age from its limbs In resinous fluid. The daylight goes, and softly comes the moon's, And then poor Clara over the last stitch swoons. Keep Human Faith Alive! The Lovers thus, thus uncontroul'd did meet, Thus all their Joyes and Vows of Love repeat: Joyes which were everlasting, ever new And every Vow inviolably true: Not kept in fear of Gods, no fond Religious cause, Nor in obedience to the duller Laws. Fame's well enough, but comfort has its laws; You'll make a damned poor supper off applause. His son succeeds him. The Peers stand firm; the Commons disagree.
Then other prophets, other scribes arose, A nearer, surer Eden to disclose. What says the Crown? II Calm was the air, no winds blew fierce and loud, The sky was darkened with no sullen cloud; But all the heav'ns laughed with continued light, And scattered round their rays serenely bright. The impious hands, emboldened by her swoon, Choke in the night, and slay her in the noon! Say, shall we marvel, amid scenes like these, With all to dazzle, but with nought to please, If links of simple gold should fail to cleave, And tempters prompt their webs not vainly weave? But when with streaming eye and throbbing breast She, pious child, her loving fears confessed, And, leagued with Honour's voice and Valour's ire, Prayed us to save her country and her sire, We turned away, and opulently cold, Put back our swords of steel in sheaths of gold! Agreed; But then his goblets smack of Ganymede? Spoilt by twin sops, servility and gold, The headstrong crowd is then but ill controlled. Religion, Ethics, all men erst adored, Hymned on the harp, or fought for with the sword, All lofty scopes, all ends esteemed of old, Dissolve like mist before the rage for gold. If through long slumbrous years the ignoble rust Of selfish ease your erst bright steel encrust, When Storm impends, you vainly will implore The Gods of Ocean to protect your shore. No distant mines, by penury divined, Made him the sport of fickle wave or wind.
The Golden Age: Poems of the Spanish Renaissance by Edith Grossman
Back, back from Baden, and leave Homburg's shades To dazzling Jews and mercenary jades. Foiled in his purpose, both by foe and friend, Through noble means to reach a noble end, The baffled boy forswears his cherished dream, And learns to swim, like others, with the stream. The loss of one was hailed as others' gain, And pleasure took unnatural birth from pain. You doat on Flower-shows: Croesus has a bone. But the rock that struck the statue became a huge mountain and filled the whole earth.
See the vain Tribune who, in lust of power, Bows to the base exactions of the hour, And, fooled by sycophants, stands forth at last A devotee turned sworn iconoclast! Shares in the moon advanced-advancing still. As years rolled on, as centuries went by, And still that Promised Time seemed no more nigh, Mankind at length, outwearied with delays, Gave up all hope of those seductive days. To-day, he wanders feverish and depressed, As though whole Andes weighed upon his breast. Fair melting woman of the tender breast Here finds no room for pity as her guest. Now will no more his trustful wife behold The gladsome face returning as of old, And read in sparkling eye and smiling cheek The day's good tidings e'en before he speak; Never again in hastening footsteps guess Some pretty love-gift, token of success. The Peers be-well, it now is close on three. Then scoffed, and scourged, and stripped of all his wealth, His last friends leave him-energy and health.
Yet deem you, England, that you thus will save, Even your wealth from rapine or the grave? Not mine to follow to the noisome den Where woman's frailty stands the gaze of men, And well-coached menials, limed with gold, detail The piteous scenes that pass behind the veil. From spendthrift squares back to your native shires! He heeds them not; he joins the madding crowd, King of the base, the vulgar, and the loud; Builds his most precious friendships on a bet, And through the gutter trails his coronet. Bid him rejoin his Hercules, and seize The golden apples of the Hesperides; And then perchance, should none more rich than he Engage your love, you may his Hera be. Who with the Muse would live must live on air. It gathers up the flowing hair, That loosely played with wanton air.
Fired by each bright example, shun the shade, Where Scandal best can ply her noxious trade. Then, when vain crowds with dilatory glaive Rush to avenge the life they would not save, The prompt conspirators with lavish hand Fling their last pieces to a pampered band, Bribe cut-throat blades Vengeance' choked ways to hold, And bar the avenues of rage with gold! Would Primogeniture its fall survive, Or even Property be kept alive? And though you ransacked worlds from shore to shore, From sea to sky, you could not give me more. Its natural slaves, who, spawned from wealth, are born To Traffic's tricks they lack the soul to scorn, Whose lust for lucre is their proper lot, It just as oft impoverishes as not. And the drapery has closed. The groves appeared all dressed with wreaths of flowers, And from their leaves dropped aromatic showers, Whose fragrant heads in mystic twines above, Exchanged their sweets, and mixed with thousand kisses, As if the willing brances strove To beautify and shade the grove Where the young wanton Gods of Love Offer their noblest sacrifice of blisses.
One makes a coup, and weds a wife of rank; Another's junior partner in a bank. Before your might let rails and rules be hurled, And sweep Civilisation from the world! Nor time nor tide will wait. From dawn to dark Man's life was steeped in joy, And the gray sire was happy as the boy. Not born nor bred to rule, of culture void, And by no wave of young ambition buoyed, Anxious on heights conspicuous to flaunt Nought but the tawdry trophies they can vaunt, They woo the grasping crowd with golden guile, And spread Corruption's canker through the Isle. Bribed by the foe, behold Britannia stand At Freedom's portals with a traitress hand, Help the Barbarian to its sacred hold, Then, like Tarpeia, sink oppressed with Gold! Did all her gold suffice, when steel withstood Her stride, to make her rash, vain challenge good? His sire reproaches, and his brothers scoff, His mother doubts, his sisters e'en fall off. Here's the very stuff.
