Yeats died Saturday in France.
Freedom from his animal
Has come at last in alien Nice,
His heart beat separate from his will:
He knows at last the old abyss
Which always faced his staring face.
No ability, no dignity
Can fail him now who trained so long
For the outrage of eternity,
Teaching his heart to beat a song
In which man's strict humanity,
Erect as a soldier, became a tongue.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
this is from The New York Times : - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Nice, France, Jan.29. - The death of William Butler Yeats, famous Irish poet and playwright, occurred yesterday near Mentone. Mr. Yeats, who won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1923, was 73 years old. Mentone, France, Jan.29 (AP) . - Mr. Yeats died in the little French Riviera town of Roquebrune, after a short illness, at a boarding house where he and his wife had been staying. He will be buried tomorrow at Roquebrune. It was expected, however, that eventually the poet's body would be removed to his native Ireland. Mr. Yeats arrived in Roquebrune early last month in ill health. He suffered repeated heart attacks, and was able to take only short walks in the gardens of the house where he stayed. He had been confined to his bed since Tuesday. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -