No Second Troy
WHY should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great.
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?
I know what triggered the poem for Yeats; historical context can tell us much about that failed love affair, and her subsequent devotion to the cause.
But I can't figure out why this is the poem on my mind today. Is it that it is pointless to argue with one's self about what one is committed to? Or that I need to accept others for what they are? And not take other's unkindness to heart? But I haven't felt critical of myself or of others recently.
Is it that other passions are just as valid as my passions? But, I know this already; I try to acknowledge this in my day to day life as much as possible.
Why this poem, today?