Pilgrimage of poems: Lonely impulse of delight

Okay, look—you knew you weren’t going to get out of National Poetry Month without William Butler Yeats, didn’t you? Yeats is my go-to guy for exquisite use of language, for strength of form and for just all-around delight.

Last year I gave you two of his poems, “Easter 1916” and “Second Coming”. I still recommend them both. The imagery—particularly in “Second Coming” is about as powerful as you’ll find in the English language.

Yeats wrote today’s poem upon the death of Robert Gregory, beloved son of Lady Gregory, who—with Yeats—was a major force in the Irish Literary Revival at the turn of the last century. Robert, an artist in his own right (and a cricketer, which earned him some renown, although I of course have no take on that), was a pilot in the Royal Flying Corps (RFC) and served in Italy when he was killed (age 36) by “friendly fire” from an Italian ally.

Yeats wrote several poems about Gregory’s death, including this one, in which he attempts to understand why the young man volunteered to serve in the war. (In “Easter 1916” the poet tries to do the same regarding the Irish nationalists who tried to seize control of the political infrastructure while Britain was involved in the war.) Because Gregory—an artist and sportsman, remember—didn’t “love” those he served, nor “hate” those he fought. He was Irish and whatever happened on the fields of Flanders or in the air over Italy or in the oceans of the world was not likely to change Ireland’s condition in any respect.

(Well, that was certainly the expectation in 1918, when Gregory died and Yeats wrote the poem. The reality was that World War I shook loose Britain’s death grip on a lot of its empire.)

Yeats ascribes Gregory’s decision to serve to a “lonely impulse to delight”, which is a little confusing to me. I mean, I could see that if he’d gone straight into the RFC; being a flyer in that war was viewed as chivalric and romantic in a way that the ground war was not. (At least it wasn’t after the first few months in the trenches.) But Gregory initially served in the 4^th Connaught Rangers and didn’t transfer to the RFC until 1916.

Well, in the end, the poet/airman seems to be saying that the choice to serve—knowing that it’s assuredly gong to lead to death—is the right, possibly the only, course to follow. And I’m not seeing a “dulce et decorum est pro patria mori” side to this. It wasn’t pubic pressure or civic obligation that persuaded him to take the king’s shilling. We’re back to that impulse of delight.

I’m really trying to get my head around this. Any thoughts?

“An Irish Airman Foresees His Death”

I know that I shall meet my fate

Somewhere among the clouds above;

Those that I fight I do not hate,

Those that I guard I do not love;

My country is Kiltartan Cross,

My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,

No likely end could bring them loss

Or leave them happier than before.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,

Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,

A lonely impulse of delight

Drove to this tumult in the clouds;

I balanced all, brought all to mind,

The years to come seemed waste of breath,

A waste of breath the years behind

In balance with this life, this death.