The Old Age of Queen Maeve

W. B. Yeatsfirst published 1903from Narrative and Dramatic Poems146 lines

Maeve the great queen was pacing to and fro,Between the walls covered with beaten bronze,In her high house at Cruachan; the long hearth,Flickering with ash and hazel, but half showedWhere the tired horse-boys lay upon the rushes,Or on the benches underneath the walls,In comfortable sleep; all living sleptBut that great queen, who more than half the nightHad paced from door to fire and fire to door.Though now in her old age, in her young ageShe had been beautiful in that old wayThat’s all but gone; for the proud heart is gone,And the fool heart of the counting-house fears allBut soft beauty and indolent desire.She could have called over the rim of the worldWhatever woman’s lover had hit her fancy,And yet had been great bodied and great limbed,Fashioned to be the mother of strong children;And she’d had lucky eyes and a high heart,And wisdom that caught fire like the dried flax,At need, and made her beautiful and fierce,Sudden and laughing.O unquiet heart,Why do you praise another, praising her,As if there were no tale but your own taleWorth knitting to a measure of sweet sound?Have I not bid you tell of that great queenWho has been buried some two thousand years?

When night was at its deepest, a wild gooseCried from the porter’s lodge, and with long clamourShook the ale horns and shields upon their hooks;But the horse-boys slept on, as though some powerHad filled the house with Druid heaviness;And wondering who of the many-changing SidheHad come as in the old times to counsel her,Maeve walked, yet with slow footfall, being old,To that small chamber by the outer gate.The porter slept, although he sat uprightWith still and stony limbs and open eyes.Maeve waited, and when that ear-piercing noiseBroke from his parted lips and broke again,She laid a hand on either of his shoulders,And shook him wide awake, and bid him sayWho of the wandering many-changing onesHad troubled his sleep. But all he had to sayWas that, the air being heavy and the dogsMore still than they had been for a good month,He had fallen asleep, and, though he had dreamed nothing,He could remember when he had had fine dreams.It was before the time of the great warOver the White-Horned Bull, and the Brown Bull.

She turned away; he turned again to sleepThat no god troubled now, and, wonderingWhat matters were afoot among the Sidhe,Maeve walked through that great hall, and with a sighLifted the curtain of her sleeping-room,Remembering that she too had seemed divineTo many thousand eyes, and to her ownOne that the generations had long waitedThat work too difficult for mortal handsMight be accomplished. Bunching the curtain upShe saw her husband Ailell sleeping there,And thought of days when he’d had a straight body,And of that famous Fergus, Nessa’s husband,Who had been the lover of her middle life.

Suddenly Ailell spoke out of his sleep,And not with his own voice or a man’s voice,But with the burning, live, unshaken voice,Of those that it may be can never age.He said, “High Queen of Cruachan and Magh Ai,A king of the Great Plain would speak with you.”And with glad voice Maeve answered him, “What kingOf the far wandering shadows has come to me?As in the old days when they would come and goAbout my threshold to counsel and to help.”The parted lips replied, “I seek your help,For I am Aengus, and I am crossed in love.”“How may a mortal whose life gutters outHelp them that wander with hand clasping hand,Their haughty images that cannot wither,For all their beauty’s like a hollow dream,Mirrored in streams that neither hail nor rainNor the cold North has troubled?”He replied:“I am from those rivers and I bid you callThe children of the Maines out of sleep,And set them digging under Bual’s hill.We shadows, while they uproot his earthy house,Will overthrow his shadows and carry offCaer, his blue-eyed daughter that I love.I helped your fathers when they built these walls,And I would have your help in my great need,Queen of high Cruachan.”“I obey your willWith speedy feet and a most thankful heart:For you have been, O Aengus of the birds,Our giver of good counsel and good luck.”And with a groan, as if the mortal breathCould but awaken sadly upon lipsThat happier breath had moved, her husband turnedFace downward, tossing in a troubled sleep;But Maeve, and not with a slow feeble foot,Came to the threshold of the painted house,Where her grandchildren slept, and cried aloud,Until the pillared dark began to stirWith shouting and the clang of unhooked arms.She told them of the many-changing ones;And all that night, and all through the next dayTo middle night, they dug into the hill.At middle night great cats with silver claws,Bodies of shadow and blind eyes like pearls,Came up out of the hole, and red-eared houndsWith long white bodies came out of the airSuddenly, and ran at them and harried them.

The Maines’ children dropped their spades, and stoodWith quaking joints and terror-strucken faces,Till Maeve called out: “These are but common men.The Maines’ children have not dropped their spades,Because Earth, crazy for its broken power,Casts up a show and the winds answer itWith holy shadows.” Her high heart was glad,And when the uproar ran along the grassShe followed with light footfall in the midst,Till it died out where an old thorn tree stood.

Friend of these many years, you too had stoodWith equal courage in that whirling rout;For you, although you’ve not her wandering heart,Have all that greatness, and not hers alone,For there is no high story about queensIn any ancient book but tells of you;And when I’ve heard how they grew old and died,Or fell into unhappiness, I’ve said:“She will grow old and die, and she has wept!”And when I’d write it out anew, the words,Half crazy with the thought, She too has wept!Outrun the measure.I’d tell of that great queenWho stood amid a silence by the thornUntil two lovers came out of the airWith bodies made out of soft fire. The one,About whose face birds wagged their fiery wings,Said: “Aengus and his sweetheart give their thanksTo Maeve and to Maeve’s household, owing allIn owing them the bride-bed that gives peace.”Then Maeve: “O Aengus, Master of all lovers,A thousand years ago you held high talkWith the first kings of many-pillared Cruachan.O when will you grow weary?”They had vanished;But out of the dark air over her head there cameA murmur of soft words and meeting lips.

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

In brief

Summary

Old Queen Maeve helps the love god Aengus win his bride.

Maeve, the great queen of Connacht, now old, paces her hall at Cruachan while everyone sleeps. The poet recalls her fierce youth, then checks himself: his heart keeps praising another woman through her. A wild goose cries, the house lies under a magic sleep, and Maeve's husband Ailell speaks in a voice not his own. It is Aengus, god of love, asking her help to win Caer, the daughter of Bual. Maeve rouses her grandchildren, who dig into Bual's hill for a night and a day until shadowy cats and hounds burst out. Maeve stands firm, and at an old thorn tree two lovers made of fire thank her. The poet breaks in again to praise his friend, who has Maeve's greatness and who, like her, must grow old. The poem ends with the lovers vanishing in a murmur of kisses.

Lines to remember

Maeve the great queen was pacing to and fro,

Friend of these many years, you too had stood

A murmur of soft words and meeting lips.

Line by line

Lines 1 to 9The sleepless queen
Maeve paces her bronze-walled hall at Cruachan while the horse-boys sleep by the flickering hearth. Everyone sleeps "But that great queen", who has walked "from door to fire and fire to door" for half the night. The repeated phrase gives her restlessness a steady, pacing beat.
Lines 10 to 22Maeve in her prime
She was once beautiful in an older, prouder way, before "the fool heart of the counting-house" came to prize only soft beauty. She could summon any lover, was "great bodied and great limbed", and had wisdom that "caught fire like the dried flax", making her "Sudden and laughing".
Lines 23 to 27The poet checks himself
Halfway through line 22 the poet turns on his own "unquiet heart". Why does it praise another woman while praising Maeve, as if only its own story deserved verse? The interruption hints that the old queen stands for someone he loves, and he pulls himself back to "that great queen".
Lines 28 to 50A cry in the night
A wild goose cries from the porter's lodge and shakes the shields, but no one stirs, as though "Druid heaviness" lay on the house. Maeve hopes the Sidhe have come to counsel her, but the porter has only been snoring. He dreamed nothing, though he remembers "fine dreams" from before the war over the bulls.
Lines 51 to 64Memories at the bedside
Turning away, she remembers that she "too had seemed divine", born to do work "too difficult for mortal hands". Lifting the bed curtain, she sees her husband Ailell asleep and thinks of his once straight body, and of Fergus, "the lover of her middle life".
Lines 65 to 94Aengus speaks
Ailell speaks in his sleep with the "burning, live, unshaken voice" of an immortal. It is Aengus, "crossed in love". Maeve wonders how a mortal "whose life gutters out" can help such beings, but he asks her to set the Maines' children digging under Bual's hill so that he can carry off Caer, and she gladly agrees.
Lines 95 to 121Digging under the hill
Ailell groans back into human sleep. Maeve, now "not with a slow feeble foot", wakes her grandchildren, who dig for a night and a day. At midnight cats "with silver claws" and red-eared hounds burst out. The diggers quake until Maeve shames them, and she follows the uproar to an old thorn tree.
Lines 122 to 133The poet's friend
The poet breaks off to address a "Friend of these many years" who would have stood as bravely in that rout. Every ancient story of queens seems to tell of her, and the thought that she too will grow old and weep so moves him that his words "Outrun the measure".
Lines 134 to 146The lovers' thanks
At the thorn two lovers "made out of soft fire" appear: Aengus, with birds about his face, and his bride. They thank Maeve for "the bride-bed that gives peace". She asks Aengus, "O when will you grow weary?", but they have gone, leaving only "A murmur of soft words and meeting lips."

Themes

Old age

The title's subject is ageing greatness. Maeve paces at night, walks "with slow footfall, being old", and remembers a youth when she "seemed divine". Yet when the immortals call, she moves "not with a slow feeble foot" and her "high heart was glad". Age dims the body but not the heroic spirit, and the poet fears the same ageing for his friend: "She will grow old and die".

Mortals and immortals

The Sidhe are never far away: they come to Maeve's threshold, speak through her sleeping husband, and fight in shadow shapes under the hill. Their images "cannot wither", yet they need mortal hands to dig. Maeve's question, "O when will you grow weary?", sets human tiredness against the endless desire of the gods, who vanish in a murmur of kisses.

A lost heroic age

The poem mourns a nobler time. Maeve was beautiful "in that old way" that is now "all but gone", pushed aside by "the fool heart of the counting-house", which wants only "soft beauty and indolent desire". Against that modern timidity the poem sets Maeve's courage among the shadows, and it places the poet's friend with the heroes of the old books.

Context

The poem first appeared in a book in 1903, in In the Seven Woods, alongside "Baile and Aillinn", and Yeats revised it for later editions. It stands in the Narrative and Dramatic section of the collected poems. Maeve is the warrior queen of Connacht in the old Irish tales, with her royal seat at Cruachan in County Roscommon. The war the porter remembers, fought "Over the White-Horned Bull, and the Brown Bull", is the cattle raid of Cooley.

Aengus's search for Caer comes from the old Irish tale known as the Dream of Aengus, in which Maeve and Ailell help the love god win a girl from a fairy hill. The "Friend of these many years" in lines 122 to 133 is usually read as Maud Gonne, whom Yeats often pictured as a heroic woman out of legend.

Form

Blank verse: unrhymed lines of five beats, in six verse paragraphs of very different lengths. Where a speaker changes or the poet interrupts himself, a line is split in two and stepped across the page ("Sudden and laughing. O unquiet heart,"). These broken lines mark the moments where the old story gives way to the poet's own feeling.

Revised between 1903 (Gutenberg 30652) and 1908 (Gutenberg 49608) and later.