for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand

A friend's facebook status led me to this poem by W. B. Yeats:

The Stolen Child

WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.

And I wondered what the author intended the poem to be about. So a few internet searches later, I learned that Yeats was fascinated by Irish folklore, and thus this poem is supposedly based on the idea of faeries stealing children.

Which I suppose is rather obvious given the title and the content.

Yet I didn't think it was about faeries at all. To me, it has death written all over it.

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. 

How true these lines ring.

Xiomara told me about young children who dig around in the trash looking for things to recycle so they can earn a little money. Only these children often get cut, and their cuts get infected. Medical care is neither extensive nor all-encompassing, so instead they are given injection after injection, trying to combat the countless infections.

Little children who can't afford to go to school.

I see them selling fruit outside of the fence and my heart aches. They stand there, a stoic look on their face, while their peers kick soccer balls and whine about grammar class being boring.


For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. 

The mother of one of my students had me in tears yesterday. Her son is in seventh grade and the sweetest little boy you've ever met. His mega-watt smile never ceases to compel a mirror reaction. Focusing isn't a strength of his, and he can often be found constructing little side-projects on his desk (like taping together bottle caps to a pencil to make a car) instead of working on the exercises I've assigned. Yet one reminder from me and he is back on track (only to inevitably drift off a few minutes later... :P) For some inexplicable reason, the other students don't like him. And not only do they dislike him, the attempt to avoid and shun him at every opportunity. I've seen it in the classroom, but it apparently isn't limited to that environment. His mom told me that one day he was supposed to meet with his classmates to play together, but they never showed up. He stayed over an hour and was in tears when he returned home. We both despaired over this gentle soul being treated so cruelly-- and how we never wanted his beautiful nature to be lost but worried that life would inevitably toughen him.

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. 

I think about the eight young men who were shot dead playing soccer a few weeks after I came. And one of my favorite students' sisters, who was killed by her husband while living in the States. And my own sister and father. And hundreds of other similar stories of lives ripped out and the people left in their wake, trying to piece together the missing holes.


For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. 

I used to think I was unique in suffering. The older I get, the more I realize how truly everyone experiences heartaches-- more than one and at multiple levels. I am nowhere near unique. I can only stretch out my arms and say that I am here, for now.