The Irish poet and dramatist William Butler Yeats was born on this day in 1865. He wrote:
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick,
Unless soul clap its hands and sing,
And louder sing for every tatter in its mortal dress.
He was just tired. Worn out, used up. Taking up room now, was all. As if it had ever been any different. His weariness was palpable, indomitable. It would outlast him. When he died, it would live on.
The world would go on, as well, dishearteningly enough. The sun, and then the stars. It wouldn’t skip a beat. Who needed him? -- Chapter 36, The Misforgotten.
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