William Butler Yeats Quotes

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

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Though leaves are many, the root is one.

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Brown Penny I WHISPERED, 'I am too young,' And then, 'I am old enough'; Wherefore I threw a penny To find out if I might love. 'Go and love, go and love, young man, If the lady be young and fair.' Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, I am looped in the loops of her hair. O love is the crooked thing, There is nobody wise enough To find out all that is in it, For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon. Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, One cannot begin it too soon.

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There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.

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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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Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?

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Is it not certain that the Creator yawns in earthquake and thunder and other popular displays, but toils in rounding the delicate spiral of a shell? -Yeats, The Trembling of the Veil

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In luck or out the toil has left its mark: That old perplexity an empty purse, Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.

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I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams.

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We poets would die of loneliness but for women, and we choose our men friends that we may have somebody to talk about women with. Letter to Olivia Shakespeare, 1936

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And learn that the best thing is To change my loves while dancing And pay but a kiss for a kiss.

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Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.

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I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .

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on the instant clamorous eaves, A climbing moon upon an empty sky, And all that lamentation of the leaves, Could but compose man's image and his cry.

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Man's life is thought, And he, despite his terror, cannot cease Ravening through century after century, Ravening, raging, and uprooting that he may come Into the desolation of reality.

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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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That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees - Those dying generations-at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unaging intellect.

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Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young We loved each other and were ignorant.

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Time can but make her beauty over again.

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What if the Church and the State Are the mob that howls at the door! Wine shall run thick to the end, Bread taste sour.

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