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Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic heart.

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
Mother
Fanatics
Littles
Womb
Little
Ireland
Come
Carry
Great
Hatred
Heart
Room
Rooms
Maimed
Start
Fanatic

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We can only begin to live when we conceive life as Tragedy.
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For those that love the world serve it in action, Grow rich, popular, and full of influence And should they paint or write still is it action, The struggle of the fly in marmalade.
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I weave the shoes of Sorrow: Soundless shall be the footfall light In all men's ears of Sorrow, Sudden and light.
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The Irishman sustains himself during brief periods of joy by the knowledge that tragedy is just around the corner.
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I have grown to believe that there is no dangerous idea, which does not become less dangerous when written out in sincere and careful English.
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What can be shown? What true love be? All could be known or shown If Time were but gone.
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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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Mysticism has been in the past and probably ever will be one of the great powers of the world and it is bad scholarship to pretend the contrary.
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Maybe the bride-bed brings despair, For each an imagined image brings And finds a real image there...
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Only the dead can be forgiven But when I think of that my tongue's a stone.
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Too many things are occurring for even a big heart to hold.
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I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea! We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fadeand flee And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky, Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die.
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People who lean on logic and philosophy and rational exposition end by starving the best part of the mind.
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. . . you may think I waste my breath Pretending that there can be passion That has more life in it than death
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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.
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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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One often hears of a horse that shivers with terror, or of a dog that howls at something a mans eyes cannot see, and men who live primitive lives where instinct does the work of reason are fully conscious,of many things we cannot perceive at all. As life becomes more orderly, more deliberate, the supernatural world sinks farther away.
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