April 15, 1994

"Cast a cold eye on life, on death. Horseman pass by."
                         William Butler Yeats  -  Epitaph

I am sitting in the front pew of the Church of Ireland at the Drumcliffe graveyard. The ancient cross still stands by the roadside and the mountain, Ben Bulben, looms large and brilliant in the afternoon sun.  I had a professor at Saint  Leo, Robert Hall, who spent an entire class talking about Yeats' epitaph - its challenge, its command, its implied questions, its expectations.

I have always stopped here on my way to and from Donegal. Once Maggie and I did a charcoal rubbing of Yeats' tombstone. As I sit in this very quiet church, I wonder what went through Maggie's mind when I always had to stop here? Was she annoyed? Did she mutter to herself, "God, not again?"  Was she as disgusted as I sometimes was when she wanted to stop at some gift shop or roadside stand?

As I looked through the guest book at the front of the church, I was amazed at the number of people who come here everyday from allover the world. Yet for all the visits, I cannot remember ever meeting anyone during the time I was here. Already today, about twenty people have signed the guest book - from such faraway places as Salt Lake City, Sydney and Tokyo. I signed my name and in the space for comments I wrote what I always write, "May W.B.Y. be wrapped in the clothes of heaven."

It is another beautiful day and I am alone with only my thoughts. And I am casting a very cold eye on my life and on my death - a month from today I die.

1:00pm   -   Yeats' Grave   -   Drumcliffe, County Sligo, Ireland

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