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The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.
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
Worst
Disillusioned
Full
Parliament
Best
Anarchy
Intensity
Certainty
Conviction
Passionate
Lack
Falcon
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The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.
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My soul had found All happiness in its own cause or ground. Godhead on Godhead in sexual spasm begot Godhead. Some shadow fell. My soul forgot Those amorous cries that out of quiet come And must the common round of day resume.
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The Muse is mute when public men Applaud a modern throne.
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All hatred driven hence, The soul recovers radical innocence And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will
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I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death.
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Where the world ends The mind is made unchanging, for it finds Miracle, ecstasy, the impossible hope, The flagstone under all, the fire of fires, The roots of the world.
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Death and life were not Till man made up the whole, Made lock, stock and barrel Out of his bitter soul
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Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day. Love's pleasure drives his love away, The painter's brush consumes his dreams.
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Nor dread nor hope attend a dying animal a man awaits his end dreading and hoping all.
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Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun.
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Teaching is not filling up a pail, it is lighting a fire.
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O heart, we are old The living beauty is for younger men: We cannot pay its tribute of wild tears.
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We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.
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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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The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.
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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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Bid imagination run / Much on the Great Questioner / What He can question, what if questioned I / Can with a fitting confidence reply.
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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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I thought it out this very day, Noon upon the clock, A man may put pretence away Who leans upon a stick, May sing, and sing until he drop, Whether to maid or hag.
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What can I but enumerate old themes?
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