William Butler Yeats Quotes

Ah, let us kiss each other's eyes,/And laugh our love away.

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For how can you compete Being honour bred, with one Who, were it proved he lies, Were neither shamed in his own Nor in his neighbour's eyes?

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From our birthday, until we die, Is but the winking of an eye.

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Time can but make her beauty over again.

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What shall I do for pretty girls Now my old bawd is dead?

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A line will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

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Time can but make it easier to be wise / Though now it seems impossible, and so / All that you need is patience.

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The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.

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Even when the poet seems most himself . . . he is never the bundle of accident and incoherence that sits down to breakfast; he has been reborn as an idea, something intended, complete.

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Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enameling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

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All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the plowman, splashing the wintry mold, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

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No man has ever lived that had enough of children's gratitude or woman's love.

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

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We taste and feel and see the truth. We do not reason ourselves into it.

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A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard A voice singing on a May Eve like this, And followed half awake and half asleep, Until she came into the Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue. And she is still there, busied with a dance Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood, Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.

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The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away.

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Things said or done long years ago Or things I did not do or say But thought that I might say or do, Weigh me down, and not a day But something is recalled, My conscience or my vanity appalled.

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Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room As though dried straw, and if we turn about The bare chimney is gone black out Because the work had finished in that flare.

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Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of.

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A statesman is an easy man, he tells his lies by rote. A journalist invents his lies, and rams them down your throat. So stay at home and drink your beer and let the neighbors vote.

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