I have carried the manuscript of these translations about with me
for days, reading it in railway trains, or on the top of omnibuses
and in restaurants, and I have often had to close it lest some
stranger would see how much it moved me. These lyrics-which are in
the original full of subtlety of rhythm, of untranslatable
delicacies of colour, of metrical invention-display in their
thought a world I have dreamed of all my live long. The work of a
supreme culture, they yet appear as much the growth of the common
soil as the grass and the rushes. A tradition, where poetry and
religion are the same thing, has passed through the centuries,
gathering from learned and unlearned metaphor and emotion, and
carried back again to the multitude the thought of the scholar and
of the noble. -W. B. Yeats
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