"An Irish Airman Foresees His Death" by William Butler Yeats

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death


I know that I shall meet my fate


Somewhere among the clouds above;


Those that I fight I do not hate,


Those that I guard I do not love;


My country is Kiltartan Cross,


My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,


No likely end could bring them loss


Or leave them happier than before.


Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,


Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,


A lonely impulse of delight


Drove to this tumult in the clouds;


I balanced all, brought all to mind,


The years to come seemed waste of breath,

A waste of breath the years behind


In balance with this life, this death.




Irish Poet and Playwright William Butler Yeats has established a commanding presence in modern poetry, tackling fraught matters of intellect, moral relativism, and life and death while refusing to  descend into the chaos of mixed messages, jarring presentation, and pure shock value of most modern poets.


The lyric simplicity of his lesser poems, including the intimate confession in "An Irish Airman Foresees His Death" deserves respect and analysis, along with his seminal pieces like "The Second Coming", well-known in high school English surveys and introductory college courses.


 In the first two lines, the speaker gives forth an empty prophecy, one embedded in a phrase of near banal simplicity with immense implications. Declaring that he will meet his "fate somewhere in the clouds above", his seeming sense of wavers runs against the images of God, like the Second Coming of Jesus Christ, we will descend from the clouds. The imagery is almost Olympian, suggesting the final resting place of the gods, as well.

Yet what is this man doing in the clouds, in the first place? His ambivalence is telling, declaring in basic couplets that he fights those he does not hate, nor does he fight for those he loves. His allegiance is not even to himself. Instead,  a "lonely impulse", one which defies expression or recognition, that is what has pressed the man to fly. The two lines

A lonely impulse of delight


Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
The two lines leave out the subject, suggesting almost without notice or reserve that the impulse has completely reduced the speaker to nothing, removing him from consideration,so completely control has the drive to fly become. Was this pilot pressured to to flight? Not so, the speaker declares, on again in taut contrast outlining his ambivalent indifference to the world, his role, and his superiors.

The balance of life and death, presented in the final two lines, is on display within the poem, neutralizing the demands and passions of country and countrymen.

No likely end could bring them loss


Or leave them happier than before.

This fighter from the poor, perhaps working classes of Kiltartan Cross, will fight for a people who have rebelled before, who have nothing to show for their freedom. Whatever the outcome, the loss or the win will have no effect on them, nor does the pilot seem to care.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,


Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,

Whoever is listening, he makes it clear that he does not fly because he was forced to. The "law" he refers to may be the law of his country, international law, or the global and general laws of reciprocity. The law of the jungle, whichever law one may conjure up, a set of rules has not pressured him to fight. Nor is he driven by the spectacles of men, the pomp and circumstance that await victors in battle who return home to warm accolades. This is an impulse, a drive from within, a "lonely" impulse, uninformed by an outside influence, one whose origin the pilot can neither ascertain nor explain.

I balanced all, brought all to mind,


The years to come seemed waste of breath,

A waste of breath the years behind


In balance with this life, this death.

Having balanced and dismissed the impact of his fighting flight, dismissing the respect and rigor of men, uninhibited by the calling of his people, his class, and his country, he asserts his own awareness above all of life's dimensions, the tense dialectic serves as the final, connect element which frames his purpose for flying. "I balanced all, brought all to mind," betraying perhaps a simplistic betrayal of his destiny, or his despair of touching super-human delight, he decides that a life after the conflict would be a "waste of breath", a trice dismissal twice dispersed. The moment of fancy has become the supreme meeting point of choice, a man who has suffered political persecution, whose actions have no bearing on his country or his kin, he at least embraces a solemn moment where the great conflict of life and death will converge before him, and in a brief explosion of pleasure, he will be master of them both.