William Butler Yeats and his wife Georgie, late 1920s
The other day, an anonymous commenter alluded to a Yeats poem that I had not read or if I had, it was forgotten. Strange to me -- that the image of coats and capes and robes and being naked are haunting me of late -- it's all been said before, but there's something comforting about poetry buried deep in the unconscious peering out through my same eyes. A Coat I made my song a coat Covered with embroideries Out of old mythologies From heel to throat: But the fools caught it, Wore it in the world's eyes As though they'd wrought it. Song, let them take it, For there's more enterprise In walking naked.