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Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

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
Gone
Rags
Start
Ladder
Lying
Ladders
Must
Bone
Heart
Foul
Shop
Shops
Bones

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He only can create the greatest imaginable beauty who has endured all imaginable pangs, for only when we have seen and foreseen what we dread shall we be rewarded by that dazzling unforeseen wing-footed wanderer.
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I thought no more was needed Youth to prolong Than dumb-bell and foil To keep the body young. O who could have foretold That the heart grows old?
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The blessed spirits must be sought within the self which is common to all
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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.
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I think all happiness depends on the energy to assume the mask of some other life, on a re-birth as something not one's self.
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We taste and feel and see the truth. We do not reason ourselves into it.
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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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Only the dead can be forgiven But when I think of that my tongue's a stone.
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The soldier takes pride in saluting his Captain, The devotee proffers a knee to his Lord, Some back a mare thrown from a thoroughbred, Troy backed its Helen, Troy died and adored Great nations blossom above, A slave bows down to a slave.
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Any fool can fight a winning battle, but it needs character to fight a losing one, and that should inspire us which reminds me that I dreamed the other night that I was being hanged, but was the life and soul of the party.
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How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics? Yet here's a travelled man that knows What he talks about, And there's a politician That has read and thought, And maybe what they say is true Of war and war's alarms, But O that I were young again And held her in my arms!
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One had a lovely face, And two or three had charm, But charm and face were in vain. Because the mountain grass Cannot keep the form Where the mountain hare has lain.
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What can be shown? What true love be? All could be known or shown If Time were but gone.
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In dreams begins responsibility.
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All the great masters have understood that there cannot be great art without the little limited life of the fable, which is always better the simpler it is, and the rich, far-wandering, many-imaged life of the half-seen world beyond it
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And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.
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I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams.
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Joy is of the will which labours, which overcomes obstacles, which knows triumph.
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