‘But I, being poor, have only my dreams; / I have spread my dreams under your feet…’
By turns joyful and despairing, some of the twentieth century’s greatest verse on fleeting youth, fervent hopes and futile sacrifice.
About the Author
W. B. Yeats (1865-1939) was one of the greatest and most innovative poets of the twentieth century, and a driving force behind the Irish Literary Revival. Much of his most vigorous verse on love, sex, Irish and international politics, the complexities of the occult and the ‘sedentary toil’ of poetry was produced in the years between his fiftieth birthday in 1915 and his death in 1939. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1923.