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A line will take us hours maybe Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
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
Hours
Moment
Stitching
Moments
Naught
Thought
Pavement
Seems
Line
Doe
Seem
Take
Lines
Maybe
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Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
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Why should I seek for love or study it? It is of God and passes human wit I study hatred with great diligence, For that's a passion in my own control, A sort of besom that can clear the soul Of everything that is not mind or sense.
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I am of a healthy long lived race, and our minds improve with age.
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All dreams of the soul End in a beautiful man's or woman's body.
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Somewhere beyond the curtain Of distorting days Lives that lonely thing That shone before these eyes Targeted, trod like Spring.
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Ecstasy is from the contemplation of things vaster than the individual and imperfectly seen perhaps, by all those that still live.
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Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.
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The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.
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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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Designs in connection with postage stamps and coinage may be described, I think, as the silent ambassadors on national taste.
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The Danaan children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold, And clap their hands together, and half close their eyes, For they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies, With heavy whitening wings, and a heart fallen cold.
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I spit into the face of time that has transfigured me
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Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.
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Heaven blazing into the head: Tragedy wrought to its uttermost. Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages And all the drop-scenes drop at once Upon a hundred thousand stages It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.
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The labor of the alchemists, who were called artist in their day, is a befitting comparison for a deliberate change of style.
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For men were born to pray and save: Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.
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rhetoric is will doing the work of imagination.
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How can we know the dancer from the dance?
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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.
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What made us dream that he could comb gray hair?
William Butler Yeats
