On Leaving Ireland, Returning to America

Pardon my enthusiasm, I'm learning to be dull
I am learning how to eat crow
No longer full, I'm learning emptiness
Forgive this slow student's excess of dreams
Dreams are the better stifled for mundane success.

The eager foot has displaced
The passion of my tongue
And its empty enthusiasm.
Some noise of artistic intents,
Foolish declarations,
A removal to the Continent, and a land
Of spirit and imagination,
Are not enough in the actual event
For a man of attitude short of action.
All undone, and why blame the tongue
When the heart is a coward?

Leaving here, I know there
I have produced nothing but complaint,
And being a malcontent is not enough for prose.
What is left is this weary pose and the echoes of my intents.
I came with two goals:

Produce a better art,
Produce a better soul.

Both flown,
At the first approach of a dollar short day.
Proving what I do belies me.
But, hypocrisy dooms most men.

How can I again face those
I know thought me foolish and callow,
If only to console their own bland security?
How did I let their concerns become my own?
I spurn conformity then
Worry at the disapproving tones.
And poverty holds no terror for me
Except for its impropriety.
Hypocrisy dooms most men.

So much for art.
So much for soul.
Who was I kidding?
What do I care for art or any thing?
I, who would sit
On a curbstone in Westmeath
And produce nothing at all,
And be content?
Perhaps the fault lay in my goals.
But . . .
Peace of mind is a worthy end.
I wish I could do it again.