Quote

Hearts with one purpose alone/Through summer and winter seem/Enchanted to a stone/To trouble the living stream.

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
Seems
Stones
Heart
Hearts
Summer
Seem
Enchanted
Trouble
Stream
Alone
Streams
Purpose
Stone
Living
Winter

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An intellectual hate is the worst.
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Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.
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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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I know, although when looks meet I tremble to the bone, The more I leave the door unlatched The sooner love is gone.
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What can be explained is not poetry.
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Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.
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We are no petty people. We are one of the great stocks of Burke we are the people of Swift, the people of Emmet, the people of Parnell. We have created most of the modern literature of this country. We have created the best of its political intelligence.
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Come swish around my pretty punk And keep me dancing still That I may stay a sober man Although I drink my fill.
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We only believe in those thoughts which have been conceived not in the brain but in the whole body.
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We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create.
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My father was an angry and impatient teacher and flung the reading book at my head.
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It seems to me that true love is a discipline.
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For Death who takes what man would keep, Leaves what man would lose.
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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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I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic's heart.
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What the world's million lips are searching for, must be substantial somewhere.
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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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I bear a burden that might well try Men that do all by rule, And what can I That am a wandering-witted fool But pray to God that He ease My great responsibilities?
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