William Butler Yeats Quotes

And that enquiring man John Synge comes next, That dying chose the living world for text And never could have rested in the tomb But that, long travelling, he had come Towards nightfall upon certain set apart In a most desolate stony place.

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One man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

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Death and life were not Till man made up the whole, Made lock, stock and barrel Out of his bitter soul

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Hearts are not had as a gift, But hearts are earned.

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For what but eye and ear silence the mind With the minute particulars of mankind?

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My soul had found All happiness in its own cause or ground. Godhead on Godhead in sexual spasm begot Godhead. Some shadow fell. My soul forgot Those amorous cries that out of quiet come And must the common round of day resume.

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But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.

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Some moralist or mythological poet Compares the solitary soul to a swan; I am satisfied with that, Satisfied if a troubled mirror show it, Before that brief gleam of its life be gone.

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The living can assist the imagination of the dead.

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Do you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns? I have been changed to a hound with one red ear; I have been in the Path of Stones and the Wood of Thorns.

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Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top.

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Many times man lives and dies Betweeen his two eternities, That of race and that of soul, And ancient Ireland knew it all. Whether man die in his bed Or the rifle knocks him dead

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Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.

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Once more the storm is howling, and half hid Under this cradle-hood and coverlid My child sleeps on.

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Hammer your thoughts into unity.

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Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.

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All that I have said and done, Now that I am old and ill, Turns into a question till I lie awake night after night And never get the answers right.

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O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes, The poets labouring all their days To build a perfect beauty in rhyme Are overthrown by a woman's gaze.

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An Irish Airman foresees his Death I Know that I shall meet my fate Somewhere among the clouds above; Those that I fight I do not hate Those that I guard I do not love, My country is Kiltartan Cross, My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor, No likely end could bring them loss Or leave them happier than before. Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public man, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds; I balanced all, brought all to mind, The years to come seemed waste of breath, A waste of breath the years behind In balance with this life, this death.

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For the good are always the merry, / Save by an evil chance,/ And the merry love the fiddle,/ And the merry love to dance: / And when the folk there spy me,/ They will all come up to me, / With,”Here is the fiddler of Dooney!” / And dance like a wave of the sea.

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