Bolt and bar the shutter,

To whom is this poem written? The first line begins feeling dark, cold, unfriendly. It is a command to us, the readers. Something is lurking out there. It is powerful, too powerful for a bolt; a bar is needed as well. The words have a choppy and abrupt rhythm. From the title, we can assume that madness awaits in the outside world. We must return to the darkness and safety of the secluded room.

For the foul winds blow:

Outside is danger. Again, things are unsettled. Strong language and imagery. I picture a blizzard in the vast countryside. A lonely road leading we know not whither. Cold wind blows snow across the concrete. It is difficult to see into the distance.

Our minds are at their best this night,

The poet is now one of us. He or she is here with us. Because it is "our" minds that are at their best, not yours or mine. But why? Does the forced seclusion make us think about ourselves, how we fit into the world? Yes. We think best because we are alone, left to examine our lives away from society. The winds blow too strongly to go anywhere, to escape the forced examination of the inside of our heads. Our minds are best because they're forced to be; without thoughts on such a terrible and lonely night, we have nothing.

And I seem to know

A shift has taken place. Now the poet separates from us. He knows something we don't. What is it? I picture an empty room in an old shack. There is barely enough heat to stay warm. But there is nowhere to go. We are at the mercy of the poet. He knows something, will he or she tell us?

That everything outside us is

I like the line break right here. The anticipation builds... Everything on the outside is something. We are nothing. We are even more secluded than before. Now the world is against us. The poet has joined us again. It is us, the poet and the reader, against the rest of the world. Each line leads into the next, but we now know that everything is disconnected from us; that is why we need to bolt and bar the shutter.

Mad as the mist and snow.

When I think of snow and mist combined with foul wind, there is a definite feeling of madness. Things are more difficult to see. Our perception slowly dissolves. We cannot see into the distance. The path before us is unclear. We can only look behind to see where we've been on this night. The room feels warm knowing what's going on outside, yet we are not feeling comfortable.

Horace there by Homer stands,

Figures of the past come back to haunt the contemporary world. There is a burden for the poet; how can he or she feel comfortable looking into the wisdom of the past? This line reminds me of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol, when Scrooge is forced to see the past with raw emotion and real memories. In a sense, Yeats seems to be calling for a return of the minds of the ages.

Plato stands below,

I wonder if there is a specific reasoning behind Plato standing below Homer and Horace.

And here is Tully's open page.

A page is yet to be written. A page is yet to be read.

How many years ago

Evoking images of the past. Yeats, especially in this poem, reminds me a lot of James Joyce, probably because they're both Irish, and each was influenced heavily by their homeland. James Joyce's short novel "The Dead" also concentrates on figures of the past and their impact on (what was then) modern-day Irish society. Granted, these images aren't of Irish history, yet there seems to be a connection between the strong Irish feeling for history and the need to move onward into the future.

Were you and I unlettered lads

Before the poet became a poet. The wisdom and experience of life had not yet arrived. I picture an old man thinking back to glory days of youth, when the world seemed free and full of mystery. Now, the poet has been "lettered" with age.

Mad as the mist and snow?

Is the author looking into the past for inspiration? Does he feel different now as a poet than he once did?

You ask what makes me sigh, old friend,

Reflection. Today's troubles are worse than yesterday's. Life is not the same as it used to be. Is the author calling us the "old friend?" In some ways, the author seems both friendly and evil, past and future, close and far away from and to the reader throughout this poem. What has changed in the author's life? What has been changing in our life?

I shudder and I sigh to think

A repeat of the word "shudder." Also, remember the first line, "Bolt and bar the shutter"

That even Cicero

Here, the author seems somewhat disappointed in Cicero. Did he expect something else. Why "even" Cicero?

Mad as the mist and snow