The Rose of Battle

Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the world!
You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled
Upon the wharves of sorrow and heard ring
The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing.
Beauty grown sad with it's eternity
Made you of us, and the dim grey sea.
Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait,
For God has bid them share and equal fate;
And when at last, defeated in His wars,
They have gone down under the same white stars,
We shall no longer here the little cry
Of our sad hearts, that may not live nor die

From The Rose of Battle, by W.B. Yeats

I think too much. I need an outlet. I also wanted to share this poem with you. Actually, what I've shared above is only an excerpt; it's a long poem, and if you enjoy it or take an interest in it, then it is easily found.

The 'plot' of this poem is simple. A battle, a war is being fought but the speaker reasons that the fighting will not bring peace, and begs any man who has loved a woman to return home to her, the Rose.

This is an Irish poem and speaks immensely to it's bloody history. The Irish have always fought. The Irish fought against British rule, and the Irish Protestants fought against the Irish Catholics. And in Yeats' time, there was no victory. The Nationalist resistance of the British was futile, which gives the poem a sad romance, for as long as the fight continues, the Rose, the devoted women of Ireland, were doomed to lose their champions to the violent history of their land.

I hope I got you thinking a little bit. I've gotten into poetry lately, especially poetry with such historic themes (I've always been a history buff).

Signing off,
Abigail