From time to time, I put down my duties of writing about politics and other human follies and pick up a book, often a book of poetry, often by W.B. Yeats. The other night I read Yeats' poem "The Fiddler of Dooney." It is a little masterpiece, but then Yeats wrote so many masterpieces. It begins:
When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
My cousin is priest in...