William Butler Yeats Quotes

Mock mockers after that That would not lift a hand maybe To help good, wise or great To bar that foul storm out, for we Traffic in mockery.

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I can forgive even that wrong of wrongs, Those undreamt accidents that have made me Seeing that Fame has perished this long while, Being but a part of ancient ceremony Notorious, till all my priceless things Are but a post the passing dogs defile.

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A man in his own secret meditation / Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made / In art or politics.

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I had this thought a while ago, "My darling cannot understand What I have done, or what would do In this blind bitter land." And I grew weary of the sun

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Tags : William Butler Yeats Quotes , Land Quotes , Done Quotes

Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

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I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.

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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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Life is a journey up a spiral staircase; as we grow older we cover the ground covered we have covered before, only higher up; as we look down the winding stair below us we measure our progress by the number of places where we were but no longer are. The journey is both repetitious and progressive; we go both round and upward.

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somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

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Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.

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Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood, Even where horrible green parrots call and swing. My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud.

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This great purple butterfly, In the prison of my hands, Has a learning in his eye Not a poor fool understands.

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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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To be born woman is to know - although they do not speak of it at school - women must labor to be beautiful.

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It is love that I am seeking for, But of a beautiful, unheard-of kind That is not in the world.

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The women that I picked spoke sweet and low And yet gave tongue. "Hound voices" were they all.

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Somewhere beyond the curtain Of distorting days Lives that lonely thing That shone before these eyes Targeted, trod like Spring.

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Nor seek, for this is also sooth, To hunger fiercely after truth, Lest all thy toiling only breeds New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth Saving in thine own heart.

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The things a man has heard and seen are threads of life, and if he pull them carefully from the confused distaff of memory, any who will can weave them into whatever garments of belief please them best. I too have woven my garment like another, but I shall try to keep warm in it, and shall be well content if it do not unbecome me.

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

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