September 1913
What need you, being come to sense,But fumble in a greasy tillAnd add the halfpence to the penceAnd prayer to shivering prayer, untilYou have dried the marrow from the bone;For men were born to pray and save:Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet they were of a different kindThe names that stilled your childish play,They have gone about the world like wind,But little time had they to prayFor whom the hangman's rope was spun,And what, God help us, could they save:Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Was it for this the wild geese spreadThe grey wing upon every tide;For this that all that blood was shed,For this Edward Fitzgerald died,And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,All that delirium of the brave;Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet could we turn the years again,And call those exiles as they were,In all their loneliness and painYou'd cry 'some woman's yellow hairHas maddened every mother's son':They weighed so lightly what they gave,But let them be, they're dead and gone,They're with O'Leary in the grave.
Words in this poem
- fumble v. i.
- To feel or grope about; to make awkward attempts to do or find something. [Akin to D. fommelen to crumple, fumble, Sw. fumla to fusuble, famla to grope, Dan. famle to grope, fumble, Icel. falme, AS. folm palm of the hand. See Feel, and]
- emmet n.
- An ant. Emmet hunter (Zoöl.), the wryneck. [OE. emete, amete, AS. æmete. See Ant.]
- loneliness n.
- The condition of being lonely; solitude; seclusion.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
September 1913 is in the public domain. This text is taken from Responsibilities, and other poems, Project Gutenberg ebook #36865; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: W. B. Yeats, September 1913, in Responsibilities (1914), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #36865, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/yeats-responsibilities/september-1913.html, id L04555.
Form and metre
September 1913 is 32 lines in 4 stanzas of 8 lines each. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 90%). 91% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 8.3 syllables. 25% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 ABAB-C-C senseA · tillB · penceA · untilB · bone · saveC · gone · graveC
- 2 ABAB-C-C kindA · playB · windA · prayB · spun · saveC · gone · graveC
- 3 ABAB-C-C spreadA · tideB · shedA · diedB · tone · braveC · gone · graveC
- 4 A-A--B-B againA · were · painA · hair · son · gaveB · gone · graveB
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| What need you, being come to sense, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| But fumble in a greasy till | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| And add the halfpence to the pence | 8 | ········ |
| And prayer to shivering prayer, until | 9 | ···/˘˘··· |
| You have dried the marrow from the bone; | 9 | ····/˘··· |
| For men were born to pray and save: | 8 | ········ |
| Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, | 8 | ˘/˘/˘··· |
| It's with O'Leary in the grave. | 8 | ··˘/˘··· |
| Yet they were of a different kind | 9 | ·····/˘˘· |
| The names that stilled your childish play, | 9 | ····˘·/˘· |
| They have gone about the world like wind, | 9 | ········· |
| But little time had they to pray | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| For whom the hangman's rope was spun, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| And what, God help us, could they save: | 8 | ········ |
| Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, | 8 | ˘/˘/˘··· |
| It's with O'Leary in the grave. | 8 | ··˘/˘··· |
| Was it for this the wild geese spread | 8 | ········ |
| The grey wing upon every tide; | 9 | ·····/˘˘· |
| For this that all that blood was shed, | 8 | ········ |
| For this Edward Fitzgerald died, | 8 | ··/˘˘/˘· |
| And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone, | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| All that delirium of the brave; | 9 | ··˘/˘˘··· |
| Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, | 8 | ˘/˘/˘··· |
| It's with O'Leary in the grave. | 8 | ··˘/˘··· |
| Yet could we turn the years again, | 8 | ······˘/ |
| And call those exiles as they were, | 8 | ···/···· |
| In all their loneliness and pain | 8 | ···/˘˘·· |
| You'd cry 'some woman's yellow hair | 8 | ···/˘/˘· |
| Has maddened every mother's son': | 10 | ·/˘˘/˘˘/˘· |
| They weighed so lightly what they gave, | 9 | ··˘·/˘··· |
| But let them be, they're dead and gone, | 8 | ········ |
| They're with O'Leary in the grave. | 8 | ··˘/˘··· |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.