Remorse for Intemperate Speech
I RANTED to the knave and fool,
But outgrew that school,
Would transform the part,
Fit audience found, but cannot rule
My fanatic* heart.
I sought my betters: though in each
Fine manners, liberal speech,
Turn hatred into sport,
Nothing said or done can reach
My fanatic heart.
Out of Ireland have we come.
Great hatred, little room,
Maimed us at the start.
I carry from my mother's womb
A fanatic heart.
1932
*Yeats' note: I pronounce 'fanatic' in what is, I suppose, the older and more Irish way ['fantic'], so that the last line of each stanza contains but two beats.