• W. B. Yeats


The little theatrical company I write my plays for had come to a West of Ireland town, and was to give a performance in an old ball-room, for there was no other room big enough. I went there from a neighbouring country-house, and, arriving a little before the players, tried to open a window. My hands were black with dirt in a moment, and presently a pane of glass and a part of the window-frame came out in my hands. Everything in this room was half in ruins, the rotten boards cracked under my feet, and our new proscenium and the new boards of the platform looked out of place, and yet the room was not really old, in spite of the musicians’ gallery over the stage. It had been built by some romantic or philanthropic landlord some three or four generations ago, and was a memory of we knew not what unfinished scheme.1 I had forgotten Falstaff, who is an episode in a chronicle play.


Stringed Instrument Convent School Severe Quality Indian Hemp Lyrical Poem 
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© Mrs W. B. Yeats 1961

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  • W. B. Yeats

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