BALANCE OF LIFE AND DEATH

To end this brief cycle on the War Poet’s, I’d like to share with you one of my favourite poems written by William Butler Yeats (1865 – 1939), An Irish Airman Foresees His Death.

I love this little poem because of its straightforward political consciousness and balanced simplicity. It is believed that the poem was written in honour of Major Robert Gregory, an acquaintance of the poet who was killed in World War I. 

The Irish airman claims that he is aware of his imminent death, but feels that he is not going to die for any glorious cause. His only cause could be the actual “delight” he feels in his job, being an airman and flying into and above “this tumult in the clouds.” He makes it very clear from the start that he does not hate those that he fights, nor does he love those that he guards. He is the typical impartial victim of a senseless war. His only passion is his “impulse of delight”. He feels that his past life has been a waste, as would be his future life. Therefore this discrepancy can only be balanced by his death. 

The perfect structure of the poem echoes this life/death balance. It is written in regular iambic tetrameter, with an abab rhyme scheme. The balance is also clear in the weighing scales of ideas, words and phrases. We have the British and the Irish; those he fights and those he guards; no love and no hate; the past waste of breath and the future waste of breath. 

It is a constant balance that leads to final death; a death that has been foreseen. Enough of my words. Enjoy this little gem.

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behin
In balance with this life, this death.