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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.
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
Sometimes
Ireland
Fairy
Bigger
Feet
Told
High
Bigs
Three
Fairies
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How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics?
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A spot whereon the founders lived and died Seemed once more dear than life ancestral trees, Or gardens rich in memory glorified Marriages, alliances, and families, And every bride's ambition satisfied.
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How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.
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The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.
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I say that Roger Casement Did what he had to do, He died upon the gallows But that is nothing new.
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Things said or done long years ago Or things I did not do or say But thought that I might say or do, Weigh me down, and not a day But something is recalled, My conscience or my vanity appalled.
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Maybe the bride-bed brings despair, For each an imagined image brings And finds a real image there...
William Butler Yeats
I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death.
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What portion in the world can the artist have, Who has awakened from the common dream, But dissipation and despair?
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Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room As though dried straw, and if we turn about The bare chimney is gone black out Because the work had finished in that flare.
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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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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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A man in his own secret meditation / Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made / In art or politics.
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All things fall and are built again, And those that build them again are gay.
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My wretched dragon is perplexed.
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Locke sank into a swoon The Garden died God took the spinning-jenny Out of his side.
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Hammer your thoughts into unity.
William Butler Yeats
The only enemy of innocence and beauty is time.
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Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.
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I have grown to believe that there is no dangerous idea, which does not become less dangerous when written out in sincere and careful English.
William Butler Yeats