On the preteen heels of my godchild's birthday comes the birthday today of my own godmother and namesake, my maternal grandmother. Still waters ran wonderfully deep in her. She loved books, gardening, and books about gardening. Her favorite poet was William Butler Yeats, who wrote the following poem found in a copy of his collected works I collected from her house shortly after she died:
ON HEARING THAT THE STUDENTS OF
OUR NEW UNIVERSITY HAVE JOINED THE
AGITATION AGAINST IMMORAL LITERATURE
Where, where but here have Pride and Truth,
That long to give themselves for wage,
To shake their wicked sides at youth
Restraining reckless middle-age?
Like many geniuses, it seems, Yeats's academic record was unremarkable at best. An early report card grades his performance as: "Only fair. Perhaps better in Latin than in any other subject. Very poor in spelling." There seem to be about a dozen typos for Yeats + Yates in OhioLINK (not all of them referring to W.B.). As usual, you should exercise caution with proper names, which can often be spelled in a variety of ways.
(Drawing of William Butler Yeats by John Singer Sargent, from Wikimedia Commons.)