Among School Children

Among School Children William Butler Yeats 1 I walk through the long schoolroom questioning; A king of old nun in a white hood replies; The children learn to cipher and to sing, To study reading-books and history, To cut and sew, be neat in everything In the best modern way-the children’s eyes In momentary wonder stare upon A sixty-year-old smiling public man. 2 I dream of a Ledaean body, bent Above a sinking fire, a tale that she Told of a harsh reproof, or trivial even That changed some childish day to tragedy- Told, and it seemed that our two natures blent Into a sphere from youthful sympathy. Or else, to alter Plato’s parable, Into the yolk and white of the one shell. 3 And thinking of that fit of grief or rage I look upon one child or t’other there And wonder if she stood so at that age- For even daughters of the swan can share Something of every paddler’s heritage- And had that colour upon cheek or hair, And thereupon my heart is driven wild: She stands before me as a living child. 4 Her present image floats into the mind- Did Quattrocento finger fashion it Hollow of cheek as though it drank the wind And took a mess of shadows for its meat? And I though never of Ledaean kind Had pretty plumage once-enough of that, Better to smile on all that smile, and show There is a comfortable kind of old scarecrow. 5 What youthful mother, a shape upon her lap Honey of generation had betrayed, And that must sleep, shriek, struggle to escape As recollection or the drug decide, Would think her son, did she but see that shape With sixty or more winters on its head, A compensation for the pang of his birth, Or the uncertainty of his setting forth? 6 Plato thought nature but a spume that plays Upon a ghostly paradigm of things; Soldier Aristotle played the taws Upon the bottom of a king of kings; World-famous golden-thighed Pythagoras Finger upon a fiddle or strings What star sang and careless Muses heard: Old clothes upon old sticks to scare a bird. 7 Both nuns and mothers worship images, But those the candles light are not as those That animate a mother’s reveries, But keep a marble or a bronze repose. And yet they too break hearts-O Presences That passion, piety or affection knows, And that all heavenly glory symbolise- O self-born mockers of man’s enterprise; 8 Labour is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul, Nor beauty born out of its own despair; Nor blear-eyed widom out or midnight oil. O chestnut tree, great-rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance, How can we know the dancer from the dance? My Annotation: I’m walking through the classroom of my school asking myself questions when an old nun appears and gives me the answers I’m looking for. The children of this school learn to do mathematics, sing, study books and history, cut and sew, and organization in the best way possible. The children look up at me, wondering who this sixty-year-old man could be. I dream of a body like Leda’s: bent over a sinking fire telling a tale of harsh criticism or a minor event that changed a childish day into a tragedy. It is also a tale that seems as if our two natures are intertwined into a sphere made up of youthful sympathy. It could also mean that Plato’s parable is altered into the yolk and white of one shell. When I think of that grief or rage, I look at one of the children there and wonder if she agreed with these tales at her age. Even daughters of swans can share a little of every paddler’s heritage and has color in her cheek or hair, and then my heart begins to race: She stands before me like a living child. Her image floats into my mind. Did quattrocento’s finger fashion it? It was as white as a sheet even though it flew in the wind, but did it take a mess of shadows for its meat? Even though I have not though of Leda’s kind like that, they did have pretty feathers once. That’s enough of that. It is better to smile about that thought than not smile at all. It is also better to show that there is a comfortable kind of an old scarecrow as well. What a youthful mother she is. She has a shape on her lap that looks like honey the generation has betrayed. It must sleep, shriek, and struggle to escape as recollection or the drug will decide its fate. You would think her son would save her, but she did not see that shape. There were sixty or more winters behind it. This is a compensation for the pain of his birth, or was it the uncertainty of his future? Plato thought nature was everything but a spray that plays with a ghostly pattern. Aristotle played with the bottom of kings. The world-famous Pythagoras played a fiddle-stick with strings and sang like a star for all of the Muses to hear. It could even scare birds. Nuns and mothers worship images, but not the ones seen in the candle light. Those animate a mother’s dreams, but they keep leisure. They too break hearts, passion and affection know this. All of the heavenly glory is symbolized of people that make fun of themselves. Labor is becoming well known even though there are no bruises to show for it. Beauty is no longer being born out of despair. How can we tell the difference between the dancer and the dance? The speaker in “Among School Children” argues against war. In my opinion, the tone of this poem doesn’t even have anything to do with war. The tone appears to be caring. He genuinely cares about the children, but also somewhat lives in a fantasy world. He daydreams, which is normal. “Yeats’s ‘Among School Children’ is perhaps the most anthologized of his poems, undoubtedly because it is narrative in nature, captures a cross-section of both his exoteric and esoteric ideas, and contains a number of intersexual references to his other poems that are obvious to even causal readers (Serra).” This source mentions his different ideas, like I did earlier when I said he lives in a fantasy world. “…Cannot encapsulate what the poem is about as a whole (Serra).” Even Nick Serra can’t determine what the poem is entirely about. Serra didn’t ever mention anything about Yeats and the war, which also helped me come to the conclusion that he was against it or he didn’t acknowledge it. Works Cited Pacey, Desmond. "Children in the Poetry of Yeats." The Dalhousie Review 50.2 (Summer 1970): 233-248. Rpt. in Poetry Criticism. Ed. Carol T. Gaffke. Vol. 20. Detroit: Gale Research, 1998. Literature Resource Center. Web. 6 Nov. 2014. Serra, Nick. "Examining Yeats's colon: the magical and philosophical progression of ideas in 'Among School Children'." Yeats Eliot Review 23.1 (2006): 13+. Literature Resource Center. Web. 6 Nov. 2014. Yeats, William B. "Among School Children." The Norton Anthology of English Literature. 9th ed. Vol. F. New York: W.W. Norton, 2012. 2103-105. Print.