Dear Mr. Buckley: One misty Saturday afternoon driving from Dromahair to Mullaghmore to get lobsters for Sunday lunch, I stopped at a small grave yard at the foot of Ben Bulben, and made several snapshots, one of which is enclosed. Yeats’ epitaph was as enigmatic tomeasit was to Gene Tunney, who asked you to explain the epitaph [see Cruising Speed]. Since that time, I have asked countless people if they knew the true meaning, and no one has known. I am delighted to know that, courtesy of Hugh Kenner, you can tell me. Cordially, Jay T. Saunders Memphis, Tennessee
July 20, 1970
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