It occurs to me that [in this thread] I've been extremely uncharitable about Yeats the man, and offering at best back-handed compliments to the power of his talent. Some might reasonably see this as the petty revenge of mediocrity on genius.

Tho personally I have difficulty divorcing his poetry from his politics - at least in those verses openly motivated by the latter - I recognise this is by no means the only way to apprehend the poet or the poetry - as witness the following tribute [not itself w/o critical sting] by another very talented poet.

Eavan Boland has written extensively about the stultifying effects of the "woman as muse" image in Irish literature & society, & WBY's role in reinforcing it - but she at least acknowledges genius, & what Yeats represents to anyone who writes - or merely loves - poetry.

In middle age you exchanged the sandals
Of a pilgrim for a Norman keep
in Galway. Civil war started. Vandals
Sacked your country, made off with your sheep.

Somehow you arranged your escape
Aboard a spirit ship which every day
Hoisted sail out of fire and rape.
On that ship your mind was stowaway.

The sun mounted on a wasted place.
But the wind at every door and turn
Blew the smell of honey in your face
Where there was none.
             Whatever I may learn
You are its sum, struggling to survive -
A fantasy of honey your reprieve.