To the Medici Society.
Dear Sirs,
A Dublin maker of beautiful stained glass brought to my house last night a 16 year old English girl with a face of still intensity, her black plaited hair falling between her shoulders. He laid a large portfolio on a table in the middle of the room, as I had already refused to write the preface for her drawings I carried the portfolio to a table in a distant corner. Those present were a Free State officer, a distinguished dramatist, a country gentleman with imperfect sight who has the history of modern Italy read to him for five hours a day because he thinks it is like that of modern Ireland.We arranged our talk unconsciously that it might contain incidents to amuse a young girl fresh from Grimm's goblins and Treasure Island. Somebody told stories of our civil war, I pointed to the bullet hole in the study door and hinted at all the Free State officer could tell if he were not silent and gloomy. Presently he said Republicans were bound to win the general election in September, and all kinds of horrible things, and in a minute we had exchange civil war for politics. But I am old and impatient and have listened to one theme or the other most Monday evenings these five years.
or the strange austere beauty of that dark Indian woman sitting under her tree of life, a dark child upon her knees, suggesting so much mysterious intellect. He would have understood that she had read until certain of his songs - 'The Little Boy Found', 'Another's Sorrow', most of all perhaps - became her own songs and needed her own ornament.
I had to explain to those about the table that only a task continued from day to day had momentum enough to overcome my indolence, that I intended to write nothing but philosophy for a year, that being no art critic I had not knowledge enough to judge this painting with the precision that gives judgment authority, that I hated writing prefaces and wrote one a couple of years ago so badly that I have had spasms of remorse ever since. No, you must forgive me and not fancy that I lacked astonished admiration because I refuse to write one single word.
WB Yeats
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