The Grey Rock

W. B. Yeatsfirst published 1914from Responsibilities131 lines

Poets with whom I learned my trade,Companions of the Cheshire Cheese,Here’s an old story I’ve re-made,Imagining ’twould better pleaseYour ears than stories now in fashion,Though you may think I waste my breathPretending that there can be passionThat has more life in it than death,And though at bottling of your wineThe bow-legged Goban had no say;The moral’s yours because it’s mine.

When cups went round at close of day⁠—Is not that how good stories run?⁠—The gods were sitting at the boardIn their great house at Slievenamon.They sang a drowsy song, or snored,For all were full of wine and meat.The smoky torches made a glareOn metal Goban ’d hammered at,On old deep silver rolling thereOr on some still unemptied cupThat he, when frenzy stirred his thews,Had hammered out on mountain topTo hold the sacred stuff he brewsThat only gods may buy of him.

Now from the juice that made them wiseAll those had lifted up the dimImaginations of their eyes,For one that was like woman madeBefore their sleepy eyelids ranAnd trembling with her passion said,“Come out and dig for a dead man,Who’s burrowing somewhere in the ground,And mock him to his face and thenHollo him on with horse and hound,For he is the worst of all dead men.”

We should be dazed and terror-struck,If we but saw in dreams that room,Those wine-drenched eyes, and curse our luckThat emptied all our days to come.I knew a woman none could please,Because she dreamed when but a childOf men and women made like these;And after, when her blood ran wild,Had ravelled her own story out,And said, “In two or in three yearsI need must marry some poor lout,”And having said it burst in tears.

Since, tavern comrades, you have died,Maybe your images have stood,Mere bone and muscle thrown aside,Before that roomful or as good.You had to face your ends when young⁠—’Twas wine or women, or some curse⁠—But never made a poorer songThat you might have a heavier purse,Nor gave loud service to a causeThat you might have a troop of friends.You kept the Muses’ sterner laws,And unrepenting faced your ends,And therefore earned the right⁠—and yetDowson and Johnson most I praise⁠—To troop with those the world’s forgot,And copy their proud steady gaze.

“The Danish troop was driven outBetween the dawn and dusk,” she said;“Although the event was long in doubt,Although the King of Ireland’s deadAnd half the kings, before sundownAll was accomplished. When this dayMurrough, the King of Ireland’s son,Foot after foot was giving way,He and his best troops back to backHad perished there, but the Danes ran,Stricken with panic from the attack,The shouting of an unseen man;And being thankful Murrough found,Led by a footsole dipped in bloodThat had made prints upon the ground,Where by old thorn trees that man stood;And though when he gazed here and there,He had but gazed on thorn trees, spoke,‘Who is the friend that seems but airAnd yet could give so fine a stroke?’Thereon a young man met his eye,Who said, ‘Because she held me inHer love, and would not have me die,Rock-nurtured Aoife took a pin,And pushing it into my shirt,Promised that for a pin’s sake,No man should see to do me hurt;But there it’s gone; I will not takeThe fortune that had been my shameSeeing, King’s son, what wounds you have.’’Twas roundly spoke, but when night cameHe had betrayed me to his grave,For he and the King’s son were dead.I’d promised him two hundred years,And when for all I’d done or said⁠—And these immortal eyes shed tears⁠—He claimed his country’s need was most,I’d save his life, yet for the sakeOf a new friend he has turned a ghost.What does he care if my heart break?I call for spade and horse and houndThat we may harry him.” ThereonShe cast herself upon the groundAnd rent her clothes and made her moan:“Why are they faithless when their mightIs from the holy shades that roveThe grey rock and the windy light?Why should the faithfullest heart most loveThe bitter sweetness of false faces?Why must the lasting love what passes,Why are the gods by men betrayed!”

But thereon every god stood upWith a slow smile and without sound,And stretching forth his arm and cupTo where she moaned upon the ground,Suddenly drenched her to the skin;And she with Goban’s wine adrip,No more remembering what had been,Stared at the gods with laughing lip.

I have kept my faith, though faith was tried,To that rock-born, rock-wandering foot,And the world’s altered since you died,And I am in no good reputeWith the loud host before the sea,That think sword strokes were better meantThan lover’s music⁠—let that be,So that the wandering foot’s content.

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

In brief

Summary

Yeats retells an Irish legend for the dead poets of his youth.

Yeats offers an old Irish story to his dead friends of the Rhymers' Club, who met at the Cheshire Cheese in London. The gods sit feasting at Slievenamon, drunk on the wine of Goban, their smith, when a woman of the gods bursts in and begs them to dig up a dead man and hunt him. She is Aoife of the grey rock. She had loved a mortal and made him invisible so that he would survive the battle against the Danes, but he threw away her gift to die beside the King of Ireland's son. The gods answer her grief by drenching her in their wine, and she forgets. Between the parts of the story Yeats praises the poets, Dowson and Johnson above all, who died young but never cheapened their songs, and he ends by declaring that he too has kept faith with that hard, wandering muse, whatever the crowd may think.

Lines to remember

Poets with whom I learned my trade,

You kept the Muses' sterner laws,

Why must the lasting love what passes,

Line by line

Lines 1 to 11To the Rhymers
Yeats addresses the "Poets with whom I learned my trade", his companions of "the Cheshire Cheese". He offers them "an old story I've re-made", knowing they may think he wastes his breath claiming a passion can have "more life in it than death". "The moral's yours because it's mine" binds them to him.
Lines 12 to 25The gods at the feast
The story opens like a fireside tale ("Is not that how good stories run?"). The gods sit in their great house at Slievenamon, drowsy with wine and meat. Torchlight glints on the silver cups Goban "Had hammered out on mountain top" to hold the brew "That only gods may buy of him".
Lines 26 to 36A woman's cry
The drunken gods lift the "Imaginations of their eyes" as a figure "like woman made" rushes in, trembling with passion. She urges them to dig up "a dead man", mock him and "Hollo him on with horse and hound", for "he is the worst of all dead men".
Lines 37 to 48A woman none could please
Yeats breaks off: if we saw that room even in dreams, we would be "dazed and terror-struck" and our days to come would feel empty. He remembers a woman who dreamed as a child of such godlike beings and so could love no ordinary man; she said she must marry "some poor lout" and burst into tears.
Lines 49 to 64The tragic generation
He turns back to his "tavern comrades", now dead. They died young, of "wine or women, or some curse", but never wrote "a poorer song" for a heavier purse or served a cause to win friends. They "kept the Muses' sterner laws", and of them all "Dowson and Johnson most I praise".
Lines 65 to 84The unseen man
The woman tells her story. The Danes were driven out "Between the dawn and dusk", though the King of Ireland died. His son Murrough was giving way until the Danes fled from "The shouting of an unseen man". Following bloody footprints, Murrough found only thorn trees, and asked who the invisible friend could be.
Lines 85 to 98The pin
A young man appears. Aoife, who loved him, had pushed a pin into his shirt so that no man could see to wound him. Seeing the king's son's wounds, he throws that shameful safety away. By nightfall both were dead, though she had "promised him two hundred years".
Lines 99 to 115Aoife's grief
Her grief turns to rage: he chose "his country's need" and "a new friend" over her. She calls for "spade and horse and hound" to "harry him", then throws herself down lamenting. Her questions ask why the lasting must love "what passes", and why "the gods" are "by men betrayed".
Lines 116 to 123The gods' answer
The gods do not argue. They rise "With a slow smile and without sound" and drench her from their cups. Soaked in "Goban's wine", she forgets everything and stares at them "with laughing lip": divine forgetfulness is their cure for grief.
Lines 124 to 131Keeping faith
Yeats ends in his own voice. He has kept faith with "that rock-born, rock-wandering foot", the spirit of the story and of his art, though the world has changed and he is out of favour with those who value "sword strokes" above "lover's music". Let that be, he says, so long as the muse is content.

Themes

Loyalty and betrayal

Aoife gives her lover safety and two hundred years; he gives them up for a comrade and his country. To her it is betrayal: "Why are the gods by men betrayed!" Yeats does not simply take her side. The young man's choice is noble, but faith to one thing means faithlessness to another. Yeats's own last claim is that he has "kept my faith, though faith was tried".

The artist's integrity

The Rhymers are praised not for success but for purity. They never made "a poorer song" for "a heavier purse", nor gave "loud service to a cause" to win friends. Yeats sets himself beside them, out of "good repute" with the crowd but loyal to the muse. It is a defence of art for its own sake against pressure to serve politics.

Gods and mortals

The gods are immortal and serene, drowsing over wine; mortals love, fight and die. Aoife's grief comes from loving what passes, and the gods' cure is to wash memory away. The poem hints that passion, with all its pain, may have "more life in it than death", and that the mortal dead, poets and warrior alike, have earned a place among the immortals.

Context

"The Grey Rock" was published in Responsibilities (Cuala Press, 1914). It is addressed to the Rhymers' Club, the group of young poets Yeats helped to found in London in the early 1890s, who met at the Cheshire Cheese tavern off Fleet Street. Ernest Dowson died in 1900 and Lionel Johnson in 1902; Yeats later counted them among a "tragic generation" destroyed by drink.

The story draws on Irish legend. The battle is Clontarf, fought in 1014, where Brian Boru, High King of Ireland, and his son Murrough were killed as the Norse were defeated. Aoife of the grey rock echoes Aoibheall, a fairy woman of Munster linked with Craig Liath, the grey rock near Killaloe, who tried to keep a young warrior out of the battle. Goban is the smith of the gods, whose drink kept them immortal.

Form

Four-beat lines rhymed in alternating pairs ("trade" and "re-made", "Cheese" and "please"), gathered into verse paragraphs of uneven length. The quick, ballad-like metre carries the story along, while the switches between the legend and Yeats's own address to the poets give the poem a double frame, part tale and part elegy.