Patterns
by W.B. Yeats
I walk down the garden paths,
And all the daffodils
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden paths
In my stiff brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
I too am a rare pattern as I wander down
The garden paths.My dress is richly figured,
And the train
Makes a pink and silver stain
On the gravel, and the thrift
Of the borders.
Just a plate of current fashion,
Tripping by in high heeled ribboned shoes.
No softness anywhere about me,
Only whale bone and brocade.
And I sink onto a seat in the shade of a lime tree,
As my passion wars against the stiff brocade.
The daffodils and squills flutter in the breeze
As they please.
I weep for the lime tree in blossom,
And a small flower has dropped onto my bosom.And the splashing of waterdrops
In the marble fountain
Comes down the garden paths.
The dripping never stops.
Underneath my stiffened gown
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
A basin amid hedges grown so thick that she cannot see her lover hiding,
Though she guesses he is near.What is summer in a fine brocaded gown?
I would like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
And he would stumble after,
Bewildered by my laughter.
I would see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles on his shoes.
I would choose to lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
A bright and laughing maze for my heavy booted lover,
Until he caught me in the shade,
And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
Aching, melting, unafraid.
With the shadows of the leaves and sundrops, and the plopping of the waterdrops,
All about us in the open afternoon, I am very likely to swoon.Underneath the fallen blossom in my bosom is a letter I have hid.
It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
“Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell died in action Thursday sen’night.”
As I read it in the white morning sunlight,
The letters squirmed like snakes.
“Any answer, Madam,” said my footman.
“No,” I told him.
“See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
No, no answer.”
And I walked into the garden,
Up and down the patterned paths,
In my stiff, correct brocade.
The blue and yellow flowers stood proudly in the sun, each one.
I stood upright too, held rigid to the pattern by the stiffness of my gown.
Up and down I walked, up and down.In a month he would have been my husband.
In a month, here, underneath this lime, we would have broken the pattern.
He for me, and I for him, he as Colonel, I as Lady, on this shady seat.
He had a whim that sunlight carried blessing.
And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.” Now he is dead.In summer and in winter I shall walk up and down
The patterned garden paths
In my stiff brocaded gown.
The squills and daffodils will give way to pillared roses, asters, and snow.
I shall go up and down in my gown, gorgeously arrayed, boned and stayed.
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace by each button, hook, and lace.
For the man who should lose me is dead, fighting with the Duke in Flanders in a pattern called a war.
Christ! What are patterns for?
Introduction
Patterns is a deeply evocative poem by W.B. Yeats, published in 1914. It delves into the complexities of Victorian and Edwardian societal expectations, specifically regarding women, and the emotional toll those expectations can take.
Summary
The poem centers around a woman walking in a patterned garden, adorned in a rigid brocaded gown.
Analysis
Patterns is a masterclass in imagery and symbolism. The garden itself is a carefully constructed artifice, a symbol of the artificiality of the speaker’s world. The stiff brocaded gown is arguably the most potent symbol, representing the rigidity of social expectations.
A key element of the poem’s power lies in the stark contrast between the vivid, carefree plants and the oppressive, formal dress. The poem demonstrates a yearning for intimacy, even within the confines of her constrained existence. She imagines a playful chase with her lover, highlighting the longing for connection amidst societal constraints.
She will continue to walk the patterned garden paths in her brocaded gown in summer and winter, underscoring the cyclical nature of life and love. The realization that even war is a pattern points to the enduring cycle of human experience.
Conclusion
The poem’s enduring power lies in its ability to resonate with readers who have experienced the tension between their inner selves and the external pressures of the world around them, and it starkly questions the purpose and effect of patterns themselves.