In which I read Yeats and discover that I really do like poetry

I am learning to love Yeats.

I liked him before. I liked him as much as any casual reader who innocently encounters colossal poems of great worth and idly take no notice. To be honest, I have to be in the proper mood to appreciate poetry. Its rather embarrassing to admit, but its true: I do not always appreciate magnificent writing when I should.

I never studied Yeats in school; I barely studied poetry in college.

And yet when I found myself  walking past stately Georgian houses made of brick and crawling with ivy, I was drawn into the National Library of Ireland's Yeats exhibit. We were in Dublin on our honeymoon, but both husband and I wanted to visit the exhibit. Glass cases, uplit  in the appropriately shadowed room, were fill with Yeats' personal letters, drafts and slips of paper with scribbled slivers of poems slicing through each page's blank face. I am drawn to all things handwritten, and seeing an original of any poem, much less such great poems, leaves me with a resolute urge to read more. And not merely to read; I am determined to love them.

And so, several days later, as we were walking through the cobblestone alleyways laden with bars and pubs and severely inebriated tourists, we happened upon a used-book market. Towers of paperbacks and hardbacks were stacked on wooden tables, some more worn than others, each for less that 5 Euros. We searched through the stacks, and upon finding a book of collected poems by W.B Yeats, I bought it and am determined to read it full through.

Perhaps I shall add it to my reading list for the summer. (Perhaps I should create a reading list for the summer) Regardless, I am learning to love Yeats.