William Butler Yeats Quotes

What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident?

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I have desired, like every artist, to create a little world out of the beautiful, pleasant, and significant things of this marred and clumsy world, and to show in a vision something of the face of Ireland to any of my own people who would look where I bid them. I have therefore written down accurately and candidly much that I have heard and seen, and, except by way of commentary, nothing that I have merely imagined.

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I am still of opinion that only two topics can be of the least interest to a serious and studious mood - sex and the dead.

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O would, beloved, that you lay Under the dock-leaves in the ground, While lights were paling one by one.

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If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.

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Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.

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When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.

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And the merry love the fiddle, and the merry love to dance.

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There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven't yet met.

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Although our love is waning, let us stand by the lone border of the lake once more, together in that hour of gentleness. When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.

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Ecstasy is from the contemplation of things vaster than the individual and imperfectly seen perhaps, by all those that still live.

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

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for never yet Has lover lived, but longed to wive Like them that are no more alive.

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Nor bird nor beast Could make me wish for anything this day, Being old, but that the old alone might die, And that would be against God's Providence.

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Time drops in decay Like a candle burnt out. And the mountains and woods Have their day, have their day; But, kindly old rout Of the fire-born moods, You pass not away.

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While they danced they came over them the weariness with the world, the melancholy, the pity one for the other, which is the exultation of love.

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Words are always getting conventionalized to some secondary meaning. It is one of the works of poetry to take the truants in custody and bring them back to their right senses.

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The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round, Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound, Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam, Our arms are waving, our lips are apart.

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My temptation is quiet. Here at life's end Neither loose imagination Nor the mill of the mind Consuming its rag and bone, Can make the truth known.

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How can they know Truth flourishes where the student's lamp has shone, And there alone, that have no solitude? So the crowd come they care not what may come. They have loud music, hope every day renewed And heartier loves; that lamp is from the tomb.

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