The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless

Host: The night was drenched in the slow gold of dying lamplight, the kind that trembles at the edge of midnight. Through the half-open window, the city murmured — faint laughter, distant traffic, the hum of a million hearts unaware they were beating in rhythm. In a small apartment overlooking that pulsing world, Jack sat in a worn leather chair, cigarette smoke rising like the ghost of thought. Jeeny stood by the window, her silhouette painted in silver from the moonlight spilling through the glass.

Between them, on the table, lay a thin volume of Yeats, open to a page that whispered like confession. The line, underlined in fading ink, glowed in the lamplight:

“The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.”

Host: The air was still — the quiet before philosophy blooms into argument.

Jack: dryly “So Yeats thinks the head should kneel to the heart. That’s poetic — but it’s suicide for reason.”

Jeeny: turning from the window, eyes bright “No, Jack. It’s deliverance from it. The heart doesn’t destroy reason — it redeems it.”

Jack: “Redemption? The heart’s the architect of every mistake we ever made. Love, trust, faith — all of it’s a trap laid by emotion to humiliate logic.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “And yet, without it, logic becomes a sterile throne. The mind can build palaces, yes — but only the heart makes them homes.”

Host: The lamp flame flickered, its light swaying between them like the pulse of a fragile truth.

Jack: “You sound like a poet defending a storm. The head’s what keeps the world from burning. The heart just strikes matches.”

Jeeny: “And the head is what blows out the flame before it ever warms us. You can’t live on balance sheets and caution.”

Jack: “You can’t live on feeling either. The world doesn’t care how deeply you feel — only how precisely you act.”

Jeeny: walking closer, her voice lowering “You’re mistaking control for wisdom. The head calculates; the heart knows.”

Jack: with a cynical laugh “Knows? The heart’s blind.”

Jeeny: “No — the heart sees first. It’s the head that’s late to understand.”

Host: The rain began suddenly — sharp, quick, like the sky joining their argument. Jeeny crossed to the table, running her fingers over the open page, her touch careful, reverent.

Jeeny: “Yeats understood that intellect without devotion is emptiness. The head’s supposed to serve the heart — not rule it.”

Jack: “Then what are we? Animals dressed in poetry?”

Jeeny: “No. Humans dressed in contradiction. We think with one engine, feel with another, and call the war between them life.”

Jack: quietly, almost to himself “And we wonder why it hurts so damn much.”

Host: Her eyes softened at that — the edge of her argument dissolving into something tender. She reached out and took the cigarette from his hand, extinguishing it in the ashtray. The small sound of smoke meeting water echoed like punctuation.

Jeeny: “Yeats wasn’t telling us to abandon reason, Jack. He was warning us not to worship it. The head can’t bow to itself — it must serve something greater.”

Jack: after a pause “And that ‘something greater’ is the heart?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because the heart doesn’t calculate worth — it recognizes it.”

Jack: leaning forward, voice low and bitterly amused “Recognition doesn’t save lives. Strategy does. Empires don’t run on empathy.”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “No — they collapse without it.”

Host: The thunder cracked outside, low and long, like an ancient applause. Jeeny moved toward him, her shadow stretching across the floor until it touched his boots.

Jeeny: “Every war begins when the head forgets the heart. Every cruelty, every betrayal, every system that prizes logic over love — that’s what happens when thought stops kneeling.”

Jack: looking up at her, weary “And every tragedy begins when love blinds reason.”

Jeeny: “No. When reason refuses to trust love.”

Host: For a moment, neither spoke. The rain softened, the storm pulling back like breath after a sigh. The city lights outside flickered through the glass — reflections dancing on the walls like the ghosts of unspoken apologies.

Jack: softly “You talk about the heart like it’s sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is. It’s the first thing we hear when we come into the world, and the last thing to stop when we leave it. What could be holier than that?”

Jack: leaning back, exhaling slowly “And yet, the heart’s what breaks us.”

Jeeny: gently “Yes. But it’s also what puts us back together.”

Host: The lamp’s glow dimmed to a faint amber, the shadows deepening around them. Jeeny sat across from him now, her hands folded over the Yeats book, her expression calm — unyielding, yet kind.

Jack: quietly “You really think the head’s supposed to serve the heart?”

Jeeny: nodding “Yes. Because thought without compassion builds cages. And the heart without thought gets lost. But if the head bows — willingly — to the heart, then wisdom finally kneels before love.”

Jack: after a pause, voice breaking into a smile “So you’re saying intellect needs humility.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what Yeats meant by obeisance. Not surrender — reverence.”

Host: The window rattled slightly in the wind, a sound like memory brushing against time. Jack reached for the book, reading the line again, lips moving soundlessly. He closed it, running his fingers over the cover like a man sealing a prayer.

Jack: “Maybe the real tragedy isn’t that people think too much. Maybe it’s that they love too little.”

Jeeny: “And that they forget the mind was built to serve the soul, not silence it.”

Host: The lamp flickered once, then steadied, as if agreeing. Jack stood and crossed to the window, watching the rain ease into mist. Jeeny joined him, the two of them framed against the dim hum of the world.

Jack: “You ever think Yeats wrote that line as a confession?”

Jeeny: after a long pause “No. I think he wrote it as a vow.”

Jack: turning to her, softly “Then maybe that’s the vow we all keep breaking.”

Host: The camera lingered — the lamplight behind them, the rain-soaked glass before them, two silhouettes caught between intellect and faith. The world outside flickered with faint light, as though the universe itself was bowing to its own heartbeat.

And as the night folded around them, Yeats’s words settled like a benediction in the quiet room —

That the mind must not command,
but serve;
that the truth of the world is not found in logic,
but in love;
and that the head, in all its pride,
finds its noblest wisdom
only when it kneels before the trembling,
infinite heart.