By Heart: “Lake Isle of Innisfree” + New “Annabel Lee” Challenge

Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.” — on W.B. Yeats

When I interviewed novelist Elizabeth Crook for The Joy of Poetry, she read to me from All the Silver Pennies, a poetry collection for children edited by Blanche Jennings Thompson. I knew it would be a collection I would love when she said, “There are a lot of poems about suffering. A real glimpse at the world, you know? Some are light and fun, but not many of them,” Crook said.

In other words, the poems have a keen Irish sense about them. “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” by William Butler Yeats is on page 149.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

—  William Butler Yeats

Much like former U.S. Poet Laureate Ted Kooser’s poem introductions at American Life in Poetry, Blanche Jennings Thompson’s don’t preach; they invite. Here’s what she wrote about “Innisfree:”

This exquisite poem tells about a man who remembers in his heart the beautiful home of his youth and dreams always of going there to spend his declining years. When you read this poem aloud, notice how many times the soft ‘l’ sound is repeated and what a peaceful, dreamy effect it gives. Where is the ‘Lake Isle’ supposed to be?”

I had already memorized the poem before I followed Thompson’s instructions to notice the soft “l” sounds: will, small, build, clay, wattles, will, live, alone, loud, glade, shall, veils, all, glimmer, purple, glow, full, linnet’s, will, always, lake, lapping, low, while (that’s twenty-four).

Yeats was only 23 when he wrote this poem in 1890. And if Thompson is correct that the speaker in the poem is an old man, recalling the land of his youth, isn’t it interesting that such a young poet would write from that perspective.

I’ve never been a lake person, perhaps because Texas only has one natural lake, and it’s practically in Louisiana (far, far from me). I prefer rivers — real rivers and book rivers. I want my water to move. I’ve heard that in large lakes, it does.

But there has been one lake, Kootenay Lake, in British Columbia. One Memorial Day weekend we took a day to do the Selkirk Loop — leaving Bonners Ferry, Idaho, in the morning, crossing into Canada, taking the free ferry across the lake, lunching in Nelson, then driving back down into Washington State. We listened to music from Sara Bareilles the whole drive.

During the forty-five minute ferry ride we took pictures of the lake, trying to absorb it into our souls. There were no cabins or bean rows or bee hives. Since it was not evening or midnight, there were no crickets or linnets. Noon’s glow wasn’t exactly purple, but it was surely blue. We stood on the deck and listened to the lake water lap at the ferry. Peace came dropping slow.

And we needed it. We weren’t in the area for fun. We were there to have hard conversations with a loved one. Once those were completed, we decided to distract ourselves from the tragedy that had been and the tragedy that surely would come (and did). We set ourselves in beauty. We crossed borders and time zones. We hardly spoke.

When we landed safely on the lake’s opposite shore, we drove our car off the ferry, onto the roadway. At lunch, we walked along pavement grey. We reached our motel in Spokane late that night, but when I laid me down to sleep, I could still hear the lake in my deep heart’s core.

Your Turn

Did you memorize “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” this month? Join our By Heart community and share your audio or video using the hashtags #ByHeart and #MemoriesWithFriends and tagging us @tspoetry. We also welcome photos of your handwritten copy of the poem.

By Heart for May

For the next By Heart gathering, May 31, we’ll memorize “Annabel Lee” by Edgar Allan Poe.

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,


That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

I and my Annabel Lee—

With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsmen came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

Went envying her and me—


Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we—

Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in Heaven above

Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;


And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,

In her sepulchre there by the sea—

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

— Edgar Allan Poe

Photo by Tracy, Creative Commons, via Flickr. Post by Megan Willome.

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Megan Willome

Megan Willome is a writer, editor, and author of The Joy of Poetry: How to Keep, Save & Make Your Life With Poems and Rainbow Crow: poems in and out of form. Her day is incomplete without poetry, tea, and a walk in the dark.

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