she speaks, at first standing in the doorway.

But if one does not carry in memory so many lines of "Deirdre" as one
does of the earlier less dramatic plays, there are passages in plenty
that arrest and exalt. One such is those lines of Fergus that so well
describe one phase of the imagination of Mr. Yeats--

"wild thought
Fed on extravagant poetry, and lit
By such a dazzle of old fabulous tales
That common things are lost, and all that's strange
Is true because 't were pity if it were not."

Another such is the song of the musicians, of Queen Edain's tower, "When
the Winds are Calling There"; and another such, the crying of a woman's
heart in Deirdre's offer to go with Conchubar that Naisi may be saved:--

"It's better to go with him.
Why should you die when one can bear it all?
My life is over; it's better to obey.
Why should you die? I will not live long, Naisi.
I'd not have you believe I'd long stay living;
Oh, no, no, no! You will go far away.

"You will forget me. Speak, speak, Naisi, speak,
And say that it is better that I go.
I will not ask it. Do not speak a word,
For I will take it all upon myself.
Conchubar, I will go."

This is true dramatic speech, this has the accent of high tragedy, and
weakly human as it is it does not take away at all from the queenliness
of Deirdre. There are other passages that have such a tendency, however,
true though they may be to the life they depict and to human nature of
all time when in such a frenzy of fear and sorrow. Longer even than this
heart's cry, however, I think I shall remember that line so near the
opening of the play--

"She put on womanhood and he lost peace."

Lines greater than that are far to seek in English drama.

"The Green Helmet" (1910), a rewriting in a form of verse alien to the
stage of the earlier prose "Golden Helmet" (1908), is hardly done out of
any high intention, and although it is not wanting in a kind of strange
and grotesque fascination, it is in result no higher than it was in
intention. In fact the past five years, years much of whose time has
been spent in forwarding the work of the Abbey Theatre, have not
inspired Mr. Yeats to much work of importance. Mr. Yeats promises us
more plays, but one cannot help wishing, if he must do verses other than
lyric, he would put his hand now to a great epic. His "Wanderings of
Oisin" is nearest this, near