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We have fallen in the dreams the ever-living Breathe on the tarnished mirror of the world, And then smooth out with ivory hands and sigh.

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
Breathe
Dreams
Tarnished
Living
Ivory
Hands
Sigh
Dream
Smooth
Ever
Mirror
World
Fallen
Mirrors

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Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.
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I hear it in the deep heart's core.
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I thought of rhyme alone, For rhyme can beat a measure out of trouble And make the daylight sweet once more.
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How can we know the dancer from the dance?
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I have heard that hysterical women say They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow, Of poets that are always gay
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I summon to the winding ancient stair Set all your mind upon the steep ascent
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Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day.
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Swift has sailed into his rest Savage indignation there Cannot lacerate his breast Imitate him if you dare, World-besotted traveler he Served human liberty.
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All the stream that's roaring by Came out of a needle's eye.
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Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.
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I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic's heart.
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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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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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Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!
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The desire that is satisfied is not a great desire, nor has the shoulder used all its might that an unbreakable gate has never strained.
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Words alone are certain good.
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Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic heart.
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I know of the leafy paths that the witches take Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles of wool, And their secret smile, out of the depths of the lake.
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Oh, Love is the crooked thing, there is nobody wise enough to find out all that is in it, for he will be thinking about love til the stars run away and the shadows eaten the moon.
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