Quote

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.

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
Fire
Drops
Born
Candle
Away
Decay
Time
Mountains
Like
Mood
Rout
Woods
Burnt
Pass
Kindly
Mountain
Moods

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Come let us mock at the good That fancied goodness might be gay, And sick of solitude Might proclaim a holiday: Wind shrieked and where are they?
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It's certain there is no fine thing Since Adam's fall but needs much laboring.
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There is no release In a bodkin or disease, Nor can there be a work so great As that which cleans man's dirty slate.
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When two close kindred meet What better than call a dance?.
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Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.
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I spit into the face of time that has transfigured me
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I gave what other women gave That stepped out of their clothes But when this soul, its body off Naked to naked goes, He it has found shall find therein What none other knows.
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Man is in love and loves what vanishes, What more is there to say?
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I dreamed that I stood in a valley, and amid sighs, For happy lovers passed two by two where I stood And I dreamed my lost love came stealthily out of the wood With her cloud-pale eyelids falling on dream-dimmed eyes.
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I, too, await The hour of thy great wind of love and hate. When shall the stars be blown about the sky, Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?
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Many times man lives and dies Betweeen his two eternities, That of race and that of soul, And ancient Ireland knew it all. Whether man die in his bed Or the rifle knocks him dead
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It takes more courage to dig deep in the dark corners of your own soul and the back alleys of your society than it does for a soldier to fight on the battlefield.
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An intellectual hatred is the worst.
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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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Things fall apart the center cannot hold.
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Time can but make her beauty over again.
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Time can but make it easier to be wise / Though now it seems impossible, and so / All that you need is patience.
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It is not permitted to a man, who takes up pen or chisel, to seek originality, for passion is his only business, and he cannot but mould or sing after a new fashion because no disaster is like another.
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It seems that I must bid the Muse to pack, / Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend / Until imagination, ear and eye, / Can be content with argument and deal / In abstract things or be derided by / A sort of battered kettle at the heel.
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I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful. One almost expects the people to sing instead of speaking. It is all like an opera.
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