September 1913 by William Butler Yeats

What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone;
For men were born to pray and save;
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You'd cry `Some woman's yellow hair
Has maddened every mother's son':
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zfBKt9guFMk

El poema de Yeats se publicó hace un siglo en el Irish Times. Y hace un siglo hubo un cierre patronal. Y los desheredados irlandeses se enfrentaron contra los poderes establecidos: patronal, imperio británico e iglesia católica. All that delirium of the brave? Todo era greasy en Irlanda. ¿ Es casi todo todo greasy en Madrid? But fumble in a greasy till.

Y hace un siglo Hugh Lane deseaba fundar una galería de arte moderno en Dublín. Y la clase dirigente se opuso. Clase dirigente, intransigente, prepotente, incompetente.

Y Yeats bramó: Romantic Ireland's dead and gone. 

Las hojas amarillas de Merrion Road sollozan por la muerte de Seamus Heaney. Y las hojas amarillas de Madrid sollozan por los poetas muertos, whom are greasy as well.