Baile and Aillinn

W. B. Yeatsfirst published 1903from Narrative and Dramatic Poems207 lines

Argument. Baile and Aillinn were lovers, but Aengus, the Master of Love, wishing them to be happy in his own land among the dead, told to each a story of the other’s death, so that their hearts were broken and they died.

I hardly hear the curlew cry,Nor the grey rush when the wind is high,Before my thoughts begin to runOn the heir of Ulad, Buan’s son,Baile, who had the honey mouth;And that mild woman of the south,Aillinn, who was King Lugaid’s heir.Their love was never drowned in careOf this or that thing, nor grew coldBecause their bodies had grown old.Being forbid to marry on earth,They blossomed to immortal mirth.

About the time when Christ was born,When the long wars for the White HornAnd the Brown Bull had not yet come,Young Baile Honey-Mouth, whom someCalled rather Baile Little-Land,Rode out of Emain with a bandOf harpers and young men; and theyImagined, as they struck the wayTo many-pastured Muirthemne,That all things fell out happily,And there, for all that fools had said,Baile and Aillinn would be wed.

They found an old man running there:He had ragged long grass-coloured hair;He had knees that stuck out of his hose;He had puddle water in his shoes;He had half a cloak to keep him dry,Although he had a squirrel’s eye.

O wandering birds and rushy beds,You put such folly in our headsWith all this crying in the wind;No common love is to our mind,And our poor Kate or Nan is lessThan any whose unhappinessAwoke the harp-strings long ago.Yet they that know all things but knowThat all life had to give us isA child’s laughter, a woman’s kiss.Who was it put so great a scornIn the grey reeds that night and mornAre trodden and broken by the herds,And in the light bodies of birdsThat north wind tumbles to and froAnd pinches among hail and snow?

That runner said: “I am from the south;I run to Baile Honey-Mouth,To tell him how the girl AillinnRode from the country of her kin,And old and young men rode with her:For all that country had been astirIf anybody half as fairHad chosen a husband anywhereBut where it could see her every day.When they had ridden a little wayAn old man caught the horse’s headWith: ‘You must home again, and wedWith somebody in your own land.’A young man cried and kissed her hand,‘O lady, wed with one of us’;And when no face grew piteousFor any gentle thing she spake,She fell and died of the heart-break.”

Because a lover’s heart’s worn out,Being tumbled and blown aboutBy its own blind imagining,And will believe that anythingThat is bad enough to be true, is true,Baile’s heart was broken in two;And he being laid upon green boughs,Was carried to the goodly houseWhere the Hound of Ulad sat beforeThe brazen pillars of his door,His face bowed low to weep the endOf the harper’s daughter and her friend.For although years had passed awayHe always wept them on that day,For on that day they had been betrayed;And now that Honey-Mouth is laidUnder a cairn of sleepy stoneBefore his eyes, he has tears for none,Although he is carrying stone, but twoFor whom the cairn’s but heaped anew.

We hold because our memory isSo full of that thing and of thisThat out of sight is out of mind.But the grey rush under the windAnd the grey bird with crooked billHave such long memories, that they stillRemember Deirdre and her man;And when we walk with Kate or NanAbout the windy water side,Our heart can hear the voices chide.How could we be so soon content,Who know the way that Naoise went?And they have news of Deirdre’s eyes,Who being lovely was so wise⁠—Ah! wise, my heart knows well how wise.

Now had that old gaunt crafty one,Gathering his cloak about him, runWhere Aillinn rode with waiting maids,Who amid leafy lights and shadesDreamed of the hands that would unlaceTheir bodices in some dim placeWhen they had come to the marriage bed;And harpers, pacing with high headAs though their music were enoughTo make the savage heart of loveGrow gentle without sorrowing,Imagining and ponderingHeaven knows what calamity;

“Another’s hurried off,” cried he,“From heat and cold and wind and wave;They have heaped the stones above his graveIn Muirthemne, and over itIn changeless Ogham letters writ⁠—Baile, that was of Rury’s seed.But the gods long ago decreedNo waiting maid should ever spreadBaile and Aillinn’s marriage bed,For they should clip and clip againWhere wild bees hive on the Great Plain.Therefore it is but little newsThat put this hurry in my shoes.”

Then seeing that he scarce had spokeBefore her love-worn heart had broke,He ran and laughed until he cameTo that high hill the herdsmen nameThe Hill Seat of Leighin, becauseSome god or king had made the lawsThat held the land together there,In old times among the clouds of the air.

That old man climbed; the day grew dim;Two swans came flying up to him,Linked by a gold chain each to each,And with low murmuring laughing speechAlighted on the windy grass.They knew him: his changed body wasTall, proud and ruddy, and light wingsWere hovering over the harp-stringsThat Etain, Midhir’s wife, had woveIn the hid place, being crazed by love.

What shall I call them? fish that swim,Scale rubbing scale where light is dimBy a broad water-lily leaf;Or mice in the one wheaten sheafForgotten at the threshing place;Or birds lost in the one clear spaceOf morning light in a dim sky;Or, it may be, the eyelids of one eye,Or the door pillars of one house,Or two sweet blossoming apple-boughsThat have one shadow on the ground;Or the two strings that made one soundWhere that wise harper’s finger ran.For this young girl and this young manHave happiness without an end,Because they have made so good a friend.

They know all wonders, for they passThe towery gates of Gorias,And Findrias and Falias,And long-forgotten Murias,Among the giant kings whose hoard,Cauldron and spear and stone and sword,Was robbed before earth gave the wheat;Wandering from broken street to streetThey come where some huge watcher is,And tremble with their love and kiss.

They know undying things, for theyWander where earth withers away,Though nothing troubles the great streamsBut light from the pale stars, and gleamsFrom the holy orchards, where there is noneBut fruit that is of precious stone,Or apples of the sun and moon.

What were our praise to them? They eatQuiet’s wild heart, like daily meat;Who when night thickens are afloatOn dappled skins in a glass boat,Far out under a windless sky;While over them birds of Aengus fly,And over the tiller and the prow,And waving white wings to and froAwaken wanderings of light airTo stir their coverlet and their hair.

And poets found, old writers say,A yew tree where his body lay;But a wild apple hid the grassWith its sweet blossom where hers was;And being in good heart, becauseA better time had come againAfter the deaths of many men,And that long fighting at the ford,They wrote on tablets of thin board,Made of the apple and the yew,All the love stories that they knew.

Let rush and bird cry out their fillOf the harper’s daughter if they will,Beloved, I am not afraid of her.She is not wiser nor lovelier,And you are more high of heart than she,For all her wanderings over-sea;But I’d have bird and rush forgetThose other two; for never yetHas lover lived, but longed to wiveLike them that are no more alive.

Text: Poetry, by W. B. Yeats (Standard Ebooks, 2024), from the collected editions of 1908 to 1928. Public domain.

In brief

Summary

Two lovers tricked into dying of grief are united among the immortals.

The cry of the curlew sets the poet thinking of Baile Honey-Mouth, heir of Ulster, and Aillinn, a king's daughter from the south, who were forbidden to marry on earth. Baile rides south for their wedding, but a ragged old runner tells him that Aillinn has died of a broken heart. Baile's heart breaks too, and he is buried under a cairn. The runner then carries news of Baile's death to Aillinn, and she dies at once. Climbing a hill, the old man takes his true shape: he is Aengus, the god of love, and the lovers come to him as two swans linked by a golden chain, to live on happily in the otherworld. Again and again the poet steps out of the tale to speak of his own love, and he ends by telling his beloved that she is greater than any heroine of legend.

Lines to remember

I hardly hear the curlew cry,

They blossomed to immortal mirth.

Ah! wise, my heart knows well how wise.

Line by line

Lines 1 to 12The curlew's cry
The sounds of the wild, the curlew and the "grey rush", set the poet thinking of Baile, "who had the honey mouth", and Aillinn, "that mild woman of the south". The stanza gives the ending away at once: forbidden to marry on earth, "They blossomed to immortal mirth." What follows is how.
Lines 13 to 30The ride south
About the time of Christ's birth, Baile rides out of Emain with harpers and young men, sure he will be married at Muirthemne. They meet a strange runner, drawn in a comic list of rags: grass-coloured hair, knees through his hose, "puddle water in his shoes", and a sharp "squirrel's eye".
Lines 31 to 46The poet's aside
The poet turns to the "wandering birds and rushy beds" that fill our heads with folly. Their crying makes ordinary love seem small beside the loves of legend, though the wise know that all life gives is "A child's laughter, a woman's kiss." He wonders who put such scorn into reeds and birds.
Lines 47 to 64The false news
The runner says Aillinn set out to marry Baile, but an old man seized her horse's head and ordered her home, and a young man begged her to wed one of her own people. When no face grew kind, "She fell and died of the heart-break." None of it is true.
Lines 65 to 84Baile's death
A lover's heart will believe anything "That is bad enough to be true", and Baile's breaks in two. He is carried to the house of the Hound of Ulad, Cuchulain, who every year on this day weeps for "the harper's daughter and her friend", Deirdre and Naoise. Baile's cairn only renews that older grief.
Lines 85 to 99Deirdre remembered
People forget quickly, but "the grey rush under the wind" and the curlew, "the grey bird with crooked bill", still remember Deirdre and her man. Walking with "Kate or Nan", we hear them scold us for being content with less. The stanza ends on a private sigh: "Ah! wise, my heart knows well how wise."
Lines 100 to 125The second lie
The old man runs to Aillinn, riding with her waiting maids and harpers towards the marriage bed. He cries that Baile is dead and buried in Muirthemne under Ogham letters, and adds, almost in passing, that the gods have decreed the pair should "clip and clip again" on the Great Plain, not in any earthly bed.
Lines 126 to 143The god revealed
Aillinn's "love-worn heart" breaks at once. Laughing, the runner races to the Hill Seat of Leighin, where two swans "Linked by a gold chain" fly up to him. His body changes, "Tall, proud and ruddy", with wings hovering over his harp. He is Aengus, god of love, and the swans are the lovers.
Lines 144 to 159Two made one
The poet searches for images of two lives become one: fish swimming "Scale rubbing scale", mice in a single sheaf, "the eyelids of one eye", or "the two strings that made one sound". The lovers are happy without end, because they have "so good a friend" in Aengus.
Lines 160 to 186Among the immortals
They pass the gates of the four magic cities, Gorias, Findrias, Falias and Murias, wander "where earth withers away", and at night drift in "a glass boat" under the birds of Aengus. They eat "Quiet's wild heart, like daily meat": the lists and strange names give their happiness a jewelled richness.
Lines 187 to 197Yew and apple
On earth, poets found a yew growing where Baile lay and a wild apple over Aillinn. In a better time after the wars, they cut tablets from the two trees and wrote on them "All the love stories that they knew", so that the lovers' graves become the very book of love.
Lines 198 to 207To his beloved
The poet turns to his "Beloved". Let rush and bird cry about Deirdre, "the harper's daughter": he is "not afraid of her", because his beloved is "more high of heart". Still, he would have the birds forget the old lovers, since every lover longs to marry as they did, and they are dead.

Themes

Love beyond death

The lovers are "forbid to marry on earth", and their earthly story ends in two broken hearts. Yet the poem is not a tragedy. The old man's lies are a god's trick to bring them sooner to the otherworld, where they "Have happiness without an end". The images of lines 144 to 156, one eye, one house, one shadow, one sound, show two lives made one.

Legend and real love

Again and again the poet steps out of the tale. The rushes and curlews, full of old stories, make "our poor Kate or Nan" seem less than the heroines of legend, and he knows that this is "folly". The ending answers the problem: his own beloved is not less than Deirdre but "more high of heart than she".

Nature's memory

The curlew and the "grey rush" frame the poem. They are the voices through which old stories reach the present: people forget, but reeds and birds "Have such long memories" that they still remember Deirdre. At the end the yew and the apple on the lovers' graves become writing tablets, as if nature itself kept the record of love.

Context

The poem first appeared in a book in 1903, in In the Seven Woods, and Yeats revised it in later editions. It retells an old Irish tale of two lovers who die of grief at false news of each other's death, with a yew growing from his grave and an apple tree from hers. Yeats set it in the world of the Ulster tales, with Cuchulain as "the Hound of Ulad" and the memory of Deirdre, who fled over the sea with Naoise.

Aengus, the love god, links the poem to "The Old Age of Queen Maeve", published with it in 1903, and his harp recalls "The Harp of Aengus", in which Edain weaves harp strings from his hair. The "Beloved" of the last lines is usually read as Maud Gonne, whom Yeats often set beside the heroines of legend.

Form

Rhyming couplets in lines of four beats, the brisk measure of ballad and folk tale ("cry" and "high", "run" and "son"). The seventeen verse paragraphs vary in length, and the story is broken up by the poet's asides. The quick couplets keep the long tale moving and suit both its comedy, like the runner's "puddle water", and its songlike otherworld passages.

Revised between 1903 (Gutenberg 30652) and later texts.