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Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top.

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
Whatever
Poets
Learn
Shape
Wells
Sing
Well
Shapes
Made
Trade
Poet
Scorn
Sort
Irish
Growing
Toes

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The intellect of man is forced to choose Perfection of the life, or of the work And if it take the second must refuse A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.
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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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In dreams begins responsibility.
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How can they know Truth flourishes where the student's lamp has shone, And there alone, that have no solitude? So the crowd come they care not what may come. They have loud music, hope every day renewed And heartier loves that lamp is from the tomb.
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Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.
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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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Man can embody truth but he cannot know it.
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Overcome the Empyrean hurl Heaven and Earth out of their places, That in the same calamity Brother and brother, friend and friend, Family and family, City and city may contend.
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Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.
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I had a chair at every hearth, When no one turned to see, With 'Look at that old fellow there, 'And who may he be?
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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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Yet they that know all things but know That all this life can give us is A child's laughter, a woman's kiss.
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Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.
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This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.
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For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
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Consume my heart away, sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is, and gather me Into the artifice of eternity.
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As man, as beast, as an ephemeral fly begets, Godhead begets Godhead, For things below are copies, the Great Smaragdine Tablet said. Yet all must copy copies, all increase their kind.
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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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Though pedantry denies, It's plain the Bible means That Solomon grew wise While talking with his queens.
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I say that Roger Casement Did what he had to do, He died upon the gallows But that is nothing new.
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