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And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?

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
Lasts
Bethlehem
Last
Beast
Born
Rough
Come
Round
Rounds
Hour
Toward
Hours

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And learn that the best thing is To change my loves while dancing And pay but a kiss for a kiss.
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His element is so fine Being sharpened by his death, To drink from the wine-breath While our gross palates drink from the whole wine.
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Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.
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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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When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.
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In dreams begin responsibilitiy.
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Why should the imagination of a man Long past his prime remember things that are Emblematical of love and war?
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When we are high and airy hundreds say That if we hold that flight they'll leave the place, While those same hundreds mock another day Because we have made our art of common things.
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A living man is blind and drinks his drop. What matter if the ditches are impure? What matter if I live it all once more?
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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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God spreads the heavens above us like great wings, And gives a little round of deeds and days.
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Endure what life God gives and ask no longer span Cease to remember the delights of youth, travel-wearied aged man Delight becomes death-longing if all longing else be vain.
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If a powerful and benevolent spirit has shaped the destiny of this world, we can better discover that destiny from the words that have gathered up the heart's desire of the world, than from historical records, or from speculation, wherein the heart withers.
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All through the years of our youth Neither could have known Their own thought from the other's, We were so much at one.
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A tree there is that from its topmost bough Is half all glittering flame and half all green Abounding foliage moistened with the dew And half is half and yet is all the scene And half and half consume what they renew.
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How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics?
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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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I believe... that our memories are part of one great memory, the memory of Nature herself.
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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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