ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF W. B. YEATS BY W. H. AUDEN SUMMARY AND ANALYSIS

➥ ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF W. B. YEATS – W. H. AUDEN

About the Author

Wystan Hugh Auden, known more commonly as W. H. Auden, (February 21, 1907 –September 29, 1973) was an English poet and one of the most influential poets of the twentieth century. Younger than William Butler Yeats and T.S. Eliot, the two titans who had dominated English turn-of-the-century verse, Auden assimilated the techniques of these and the other modernists, becoming a master of poetry that was both rigorously formal and radically new. Auden was a poet of prodigious talent and output, living at a time of immense transition both in the world at large and in the poetic scene in particular. During the decades in which he lived, the ambitious, Modern poetry of Ezra Pound, Eliot, and Yeats would give way to a flood of contemporary poetic schools—from the Confessionalism of Robert Lowell to the formalism of Philip Larkin to the postmodernism of John Ashbery—all of which have competed for dominance in poetry ever since. Auden lived right at the center of this major sea-change in poetic development; his double-life as a British and American citizen only heightened his impact on the Anglophone world; and his influence, both as a beacon of poetry’s traditional past and a harbinger of its radical future, is virtually unmatched by any other twentieth-century poet. He lived a double-life in another sense: His interests changed dramatically, as he turned from his early political orientation to a more inward focus as a result of a religious epiphany.

Summary of the Text

An elegy written by W.H. Auden on the death of W.B. Yeats, whom Auden admired and also deeply influenced by him. There are three sections to the poem. Auden discusses the poet’s passing in the first half, and in the second, he addresses the poet directly and shows compassion while acknowledging the poet’s irreversible loss. In the epilogue, Auden summarises Yeats’ remarkable accomplishments in spite of his numerous flaws. All his shortcomings and mistakes have been pardoned by time. Consequently, “In Memory of W.B. Yeats” differs greatly from the other elegies. Unlike traditional pastoral elegies, the sadness expressed in the poem is genuine and unforced.

 It contains all the expressions of sorrow of a modern civilized man at the loss of a loved one. Instead, Auden cleverly withholds his grief and recounts Yeats’ death at a time when all of Europe was in the grip of a cold winter and political paralysis worldwide. The elegiac convention of universal sorrow is introduced with political and humanistic overtones, exactly in harmony with Auden’s style. So there is a certain majesty, power and dignity in expressing grief. Grief is poignant, inevitable and real. Auden is a great poet after T.S. Eliot of the 20th century. Auden’s poem “The Unknown Citizen” is the trend of this century. His poem “In Memory of W.B. Yeats” is a precious and powerful tribute to the memory of Yeats. Auden cleverly creates a Yeatsian impression by using colloquial language. “What instruments have we agreed upon. The day he died was a sad cold day,” poetry does nothing; he became her admirer; Come on, mouth’ is all typical Yeatsian style.

The poem begins with a loose description of the circumstances and place of the poet’s death. The frozen state of the physical world in the cold winter and the dead cold of the poet’s body are juxtaposed. Many rural and urban images are brought out of the paralysis of European politics just before the world war. “Mercury sank into the mouth of death” and “snow disfigured the public figures”, frozen streams and deserted airfields suggest that the day Yeats died was a bleak cold day for the world. These powerful images suggest the elegiac concept of universal mourning.

The poet is dead, but his poetry survives his dying body and all its limitations, weaknesses, and failures. It is transmitted from generation to generation and has an independent existence apart from his personal history, dreams and thoughts. It can even be changed or interpreted by the living. But his poetry is eternal. The poet’s death does not affect the daily life of the world. It continues its normal activities and hobbies. The poor continue to suffer and accept their suffering without question. Human freedom is still threatened and people still talk about freedom, equality and democracy. But in the midst of all this, few remember the poet and his masterpiece. It also reflects the loss caused by the death of the poet. The day of his death was a really dark and cold day for all sensitive people. The inevitability of death and the continuation of life are juxtaposed in an authentic elegiac manner.

In the second section there is an intensely personal and compassionate address to the dead poet. The man Yeats was silly like all poets and suffered like all sensitive and silly people. But his poetry survived all his weaknesses. Yeats spent a lot of time and energy for Irish nationalism. But Ireland still remains the same. Auden painfully thinks that great poetry cannot correct the course of history. The futility of poetry in the material world is very clear.

Poetry belongs to the spiritual world. It has nothing to do with the material world. But great poetry survives and continues to inspire because it comes out of the sufferings of the poet.

The poem ends with an impressive summary of Yeats’ achievements. It is a funeral and the author calls on the country to receive the body of William Butler Yeats and complains that Ireland is empty of poetry. Time is a villain that destroys the brave, innocent and beautiful, but loves the poet and time forgives all the poet’s weaknesses, shortcomings and 

failures. Time has forgiven Rudyard Kipling, or will forgive Paul Claudel, and it will certainly forgive all the political and private faults of Yeats and praise his poetic achievements. The memory of Yeats will be installed in the minds of future generations of readers. Yeats is a beacon of light in the dark world of Europe, and his poetry turns the curse of fallen humanity into a vineyard of human freedom. May his poetry expand our senses and enable us to live a better life. Thus the poem ends on the optimistic note that Yeats’s life was not lived in vain and that poetry has power in the spirit world.

Critical Analysis

Everything was frozen in the middle of winter, and airports were almost empty. Public figures were covered in snow, which made the day seem even shorter. Which tools do we both agree on? The day he died, it was cold and dark.

The wolves kept running through the evergreen forests, and the trendy quays didn’t make the farmer river give up. His songs didn’t talk about the poet’s death because they were too sad.

But it was his last afternoon as himself for him. An afternoon of nurses and rumors made his body hurt, left him with nothing to think about, and quiet filled the suburbs. His emotions stopped flowing. He started to like him.

He is now in a hundred different places and giving in to feelings he has no idea what they are. Different kinds of trees will make him happy, and different morals will punish him. What a dead person said Changes in the hearts of live things.

But tomorrow is important and loud. There will be a few thousand people who remember this day when the stockbrokers are yelling like wild animals on the floor of the Bourse and the poor are going through the pain they’re used to. Everyone in their own cell is almost certain they are free. As someone thinks back to a day when they did something different.

We thought you were silly, and your gift lived on through the church of rich women, your own fall in health, and us. Irish Fire will make you write poetry. It’s still crazy in Ireland, and it’s still bad outside. Things don’t change because poems live on in the valley they made and flow south. Directors would never want to mess with them. From the lonely farms and busy grief farms to the rough towns where we live and die, it lives on as a way of being and a voice.

Earth, please take a seat. Funeral services for William Yeats have ended. Leave the Irish ship alone and let it rest. As night falls, all of Europe’s dogs bark, and the countries that are still alive wait, each locked in its own hate. Everyone has a look of intellectual shame on their face, and below them are seas of sadness. locked and frozen in every eye. Following the performer until the very end of the night, You can still make us happy with your free words; By putting down a line Turn the curse into a garden, In a fit of sadness, sing about how unsuccessful people are; let the healing spring begin in the heart’s deserts; teach the free man how to praise while he’s in jail.