William Butler Yeats Quotes

I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.

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How can we know the dancer from the dance?

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A speckled cat and a tame hare Eat at my hearthstone And sleep there; And both look up to me alone For learning and defence As I look up to Providence.

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Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again! The beggars have changed places, but the lash goes on.

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I--love's skein upon the ground, My body in the tomb-- Shall leap into the light lost In my mother's womb.

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It's certain there are trout somewhere - And maybe I shall take a trout - but I do not seem to care.

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I went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.

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The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.

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God spreads the heavens above us like great wings, And gives a little round of deeds and days.

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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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A line will take us hours maybe; / Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, / Our stitching and unstitching has been naught... Better go down upon your marrow-bones / And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones... For to articulate sweet sounds together / Is to work harder than all these, and yet / Be thought an idler by the noisy set.

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What shall I do with this absurdity- O heart, O troubled heart-this caricature, Decrepit age that has been tied to me As to a dog's tail? Never had I more Excited, passionate, fantastical Imagination, nor an ear and eye That more expected the impossible.

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Pale brows, still hands and dim hair, I had a beautiful friend And dreamed that the old despair Would end in love in the end.

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O but we dreamed to mend Whatever mischief seemed To afflict mankind, but now That winds of winter blow Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed.

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

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Speech after long silence; it is right, All other lovers being estranged or dead . . . That we descant and yet again descant Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song: Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young We loved each other and were ignorant.

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Wine enters through the mouth, Love, the eyes. I raise the glass to my mouth, I look at you, I sigh.

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Even the wisest man grows tense With some sort of violence Before he can accomplish fate, Know his work or choose his mate. Poet and sculptor, do the work, Nor let the modish painter shirk

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How could passion run so deep Had I never thought That the crime of being born Blackens all our lot?

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When I play on my fiddle in Dooney Folk dance like a wave on the sea.

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