The Price Of Beauty

de552c7f8244f2405c59a11e2ba66b64The Land of Heart’s Desire
William Butler Yeats

We must be tender with all budding things.
Our Maker let no thought of Calvary
Trouble the morning stars in their first song.


The poet William Butler Yeats referred to himself as “the last romantic”, and while I know he meant that in the broader sense of his company with Keats, I also know he must have winked as he said it.  Romance is a popular topic, but it’s a cheap drink these days.  The beating heart of romance is beauty, and like Yeats wrote elsewhere in his poem Adam’s Curse, we “must labor to be beautiful.” 

When God made the world it was “very good” but sin’s scar runs deep.  We scratch and claw at the earth  to make it yield fruit and every effort of man to reclaim paradise is an imperfect, losing battle.  We all share the poet’s agony of at once answering the call of God’s image wherein we were created, yet struggle to see glory through the darkened glass behind which we are imprisoned.

Yes, we were born for beauty, and though we can only dream of the day when we are finally, ultimately saved from the presence of sin, our souls rejoice that we are already saved from its penalty.

To such love we can only aspire and surrender our grateful hearts to the great Lover of our soul.

IMG_0181Job 38:1–7

Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind, and said:
“Who is this who darkens counsel
By words without knowledge?
Now prepare yourself like a man;
I will question you, and you shall answer Me.
“Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?
Tell Me, if you have understanding.
Who determined its measurements?
Surely you know!
Or who stretched the line upon it?
To what were its foundations fastened?
Or who laid its cornerstone,
When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy?

 

Dig Deeper

Art: L’Innocence by William Bouguereau

William Bouguereau

William Bouguereau

Literature & Liturgy: William Butler Yeats and Beauty

William Butler Yeats

William Butler Yeats

Yeats was born in Dublin, Ireland, on June 13, 1865, the eldest son of an artist. Although the family soon moved to London, the children spent much time with their grandparents in County Sligo in northwestern Ireland. The scenery and folklore of this region greatly influenced Yeats’s work.

One of Ireland’s finest writers, William Butler Yeats served a long apprenticeship in the arts before his genius was fully developed. He did some of his greatest work after he was 50 years old.

Yeats understood the paradox of beauty’s relationship to innocence yet likewise the struggle necessitated by time to apprehend it in a fallen world.  As he wrote in his poem “Adam’s Curse,” “we must labor to be beautiful.”

Adam’s Curse

By William Butler Yeats

We sat together at one summer’s end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, ‘A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.’
                                          And thereupon
That beautiful mild woman for whose sake
There’s many a one shall find out all heartache
On finding that her voice is sweet and low
Replied, ‘To be born woman is to know—
Although they do not talk of it at school—
That we must labour to be beautiful.’
I said, ‘It’s certain there is no fine thing
Since Adam’s fall but needs much labouring.
There have been lovers who thought love should be
So much compounded of high courtesy
That they would sigh and quote with learned looks
Precedents out of beautiful old books;
Yet now it seems an idle trade enough.’We sat grown quiet at the name of love;
We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time’s waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.I had a thought for no one’s but your ears:
That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love;
That it had all seemed happy, and yet we’d grown
As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.