When I first started reading Yeats, I was very interested in Old Irish myths. Perhaps more importantly, I was also younger and more romantically inclined than I am nowadays. His early poetry seemed to possess an airy beauty, sweet in the best sense of the word and reminiscent of his contemporary Tagore. I felt bewitched.
Some time later, I read his poems again and felt deceived. They were whimsical, immature, unfinished. I could not understand why he was so highly praised. Whenever somebody told me he/she liked Yeats, I felt an embarrassment. I wondered if I had failed Yeats or if he was the deceiver.
However, when I approached him for the third time, I had a strange experience I can only compare with reading Nietzsche. I read a line or two, they seem too simple and crude. I read them a second time, they become opaque. A third time, they yield and I feel as if playing with a caleidoscope. Now at least I am wiser; I know I will be profoundly touched, annoyed and bored in turns, but I also know I will always return to Yeats, because a quarrel with him is better than a constant love for another poet.