King, king, he is dead; some strange triumphant thought
So filled his heart with joy that it has burst
Being grown too mighty for our frailty,
And we who gaze grow like him and abhor
The moments that come between us and that death
You promised us.
Take up his body.
Go where you please and lay it where you please,
So that I cannot see his face or any
That cried him towards his death.
Dead faces laugh! The ancient right is gone, the new remains
And that is death.
(They go towards the king holding out their halters)
We are impatient men, So gather up the halters in your hands.
Drive them away.
(He goes into the palace. The soldiers block the way before the pupils.)
Here is no place for you, For he and his pretensions now are finished.
Begone before the men at arms are bidden
To hurl you
A very short book. Nothing famous by Yeats here, not even any particularly striking lines. All Soul's Night--a poem conjuring dead friends from the fumes of a wineglass--and, A Prayer For My Son were the most affecting poems. At the end he tacked on a new ending for his play, The King's Threshold.
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