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I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind.

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
Mankind
Leave
Inferior
Art
Inferiors
Think
Censorship
Thinking
Superior
Superiors
Arts
Conscience

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The Father and His angelic hierarchy That made the magnitude and glory there Stood in the circuit of a needle's eye.
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What made us dream that he could comb gray hair?
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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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There are a few of the open-air spirits the more domestic of their tribe gather within-doors, plentiful as swallows under southern eaves.
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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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Nor dread nor hope attend a dying animal a man awaits his end dreading and hoping all.
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The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round, Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound, Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam, Our arms are waving, our lips are apart.
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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 can exchange opinion with any neighbouring mind, I have as healthy flesh and blood as any rhymer's had, But O! my Heart could bear no more when the upland caught the wind I ran, I ran, from my love's side because my Heart went mad.
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How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?
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John Synge, I and Augusta Gregory, thought All that we did, all that we said or sang Must come from contact with the soil, from that Contact everything Antaeus-like grew strong.
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Beloved, let your eyes half close, and your heart beat Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast, Drowning love's lonely hour in deep twilight of rest.
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What do we know but that we face one another in this place?
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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 had this thought a while ago, My darling cannot understand What I have done, or what would do In this blind bitter land. And I grew weary of the sun
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A poet is a good citizen turned inside out.
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Farewell - farewell, For I am weary of the weight of time.
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Only that which does not teach, which does not cry out, which does not condescend, which does not explain, is irresistible.
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My father was an angry and impatient teacher and flung the reading book at my head.
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Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.
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