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I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not love.

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
Fighting
Clouds
Hate
Somewhere
Love
Fate
Meet
Among
Poetry
Fight
Shall
Guard

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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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I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams.
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I have often had the fancy that there is some one Myth for every man, which, if we but knew it, would make us understand all he did and thought.
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Though leaves are many, the root is one.
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I have mummy truths to tell Whereat the living mock, Though not for sober ear, For maybe all that hear Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock.
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Myself I must remake.
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Although our love is waning, let us stand by the lone border of the lake once more, together in that hour of gentleness. When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.
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How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.
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All things can tempt me from this craft of verse: One time it was a woman's face, or worse-- The seeming needs of my fool-driven land Now nothing but comes readier to the hand Than this accustomed toil.
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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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On limestone quarried near the spot By his command these words are cut: Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by!
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There is another world, but it is in this one.
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I sat on cushioned otter-skin: My word was law from Ith to Emain, And shook at Invar Amargin The hearts of the world-troubling seamen, And drove tumult and war away.
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Nothing that we love overmuch Is ponderable to our touch.
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What the world's million lips are searching for, must be substantial somewhere.
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The poor have very few hours in which to enjoy themselves they must take their pleasure raw they haven't the time to cook it.
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But I, being poor, have only my dreams I have spread my dreams under your feet Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
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Supreme art is a traditional statement of certain heroic and religious truth, passed on from age to age, modified by individual genius, but never abandoned.
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