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Wine comes in at the mouth And love comes in at the eye That's all we shall know for truth Before we grow old and die.

William Butler Yeats

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William Butler Yeats
Age: 73 †
Born: 1865
Born: June 13
Died: 1939
Died: January 28
Astrologer
Mystic
Playwright
Poet
Politician
Writer
Scrooby
Nottinghamshire
W. B. Yeats
William Yeats
W.B. Yeats
Eye
Romantic
Comes
Mouth
Truth
Mouths
Love
Wine
Grow
Shall
Grows
Vino
Dies
Drank

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An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick
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I--though heart might find relief Did I become a Christian man and choose for my belief What seems most welcome in the tomb--play a predestined part. Homer is my example and his unchristened heart.
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It seems to me that love, if it is fine, is essentially a discipline.
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It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is
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I see a schoolboy when I think of him, With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window.
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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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All the wild-witches, those most notable ladies For all their broom-sticks and their tears, Their angry tears, are gone.
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Grant me an old man's frenzy, Myself must I remake Till I am Timon and Lear Or that William Blake Who beat upon the wall Till Truth obeyed his call.
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Land of Heart's Desire Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood, But joy is wisdom, time an endless song.
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Acquaintance companion One dear brilliant woman The best-endowed, the elect, All by their youth undone, All, all, by that inhuman Bitter glory wrecked.
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Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.
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Where there is nothing, there is God.
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While man can still his body keep Wine or love drug him to sleep, Waking he thanks the Lord that he Has body and its stupidity.
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Time drops in decay Like a candle burnt out. And the mountains and woods Have their day, have their day But, kindly old rout Of the fire-born moods, You pass not away.
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And I will find some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,/ Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings.
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Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.
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What were all the world's alarms To mighty Paris when he found Sleep upon a golden bed That first dawn in Helen's arms?
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You ask what I have found and far and wide I go, Nothing but Cromwell's house and Cromwell's murderous crew, The lovers and the dancers are beaten into the clay, And the tall men and the swordsmen and the horsemen where are they?
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O would, beloved, that you lay Under the dock-leaves in the ground, While lights were paling one by one.
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