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

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Great Powers of falling wave and wind and windy fire, With your harmonious choir Encircle her I love and sing her into peace, That my old care may cease.
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Come, fix upon me that accusing eye. I thirst for accusation. All that was sung. All that was said in Ireland is a lie Breed out of the contagion of the throng, Saving the rhyme rats hear before they die.
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Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.
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What made us dream that he could comb gray hair?
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Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.
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All think what other people think All know the man their neighbor knows. Lord, what would they say Did their Catullus walk that way?
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Fairies in Ireland are sometimes as big as we are, sometimes bigger, and sometimes, as I have been told, about three feet high.
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That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees - Those dying generations-at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unaging intellect.
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The hare grows old as she plays in the sun And gazes around her with eyes of brightness Before the swift things that she dreamed of were done She limps along in an aged whiteness.
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Death and life were not Till man made up the whole, Made lock, stock and barrel Out of his bitter soul
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I'm looking for the face I had, before the world was made.
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I always think a great speaker convinces us not by force of reasoning, but because he is visibly enjoying the beliefs he wants us to accept.
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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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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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I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .
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Time drops in decay Like a candle burnt out. And the mountains and woods Have their day, have their day But, kindly old rout Of the fire-born moods, You pass not away.
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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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We can make our minds so like still water that beings gather about us that they may see, it may be, their own images, and so live for a moment with a clearer, perhaps even with a fiercer life because of our quiet.
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. . . you may think I waste my breath Pretending that there can be passion That has more life in it than death
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God guard me from those thoughts men think In the mind alone.
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