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We had fed the heart on fantasies, The heart's grown brutal from the fare, More substance in our enmities Than in our love

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
Fantasy
Enmities
Heart
Fare
Love
Enmity
Fantasies
Feds
Brutal
Grown
Substance

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The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.
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I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not love.
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An age is the reversal of an age: When strangers murdered Emmet, Fitzgerald, Tone, We lived like men that watch a painted stage. What matter for the scene, the scene once gone: It had not touched our lives.
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We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.
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An intellectual hatred is the worst, So let her think opinions are accursed. Have I not seen the loveliest woman born Out of the mouth of Plenty's horn, Because of her opinionated mind Barter that horn and every good By quiet natures understood For an old bellows full of angry wind?
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All dreams of the soul End in a beautiful man's or woman's body.
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Wine comes in at the mouth And love comes in at the eye That's all we shall know for truth Before we grow old and die.
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Never shall a young man, Thrown into despair By those great honey-coloured Ramparts at your ear, Love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.
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The things a man has heard and seen are threads of life, and if he pull them carefully from the confused distaff of memory, any who will can weave them into whatever garments of belief please them best. I too have woven my garment like another, but I shall try to keep warm in it, and shall be well content if it do not unbecome me.
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Now must we sing and sing the best we can, But first you must be told your character: Convicted cowards all, by kindred slain.
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My chair was nearest to the fire In every company That talked of love or politics, Ere Time transfigured me.
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When a man grows old his joy Grows more deep day after day, His empty heart is full at length But he has need of all that strength Because of the increasing Night That opens her mystery and fright.
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On limestone quarried near the spot By his command these words are cut: Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by!
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For men were born to pray and save: Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.
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And if joy were not on the earth, There were an end of change and birth, And Earth and Heaven and Hell would die, And in some gloomy barrow lie Folded like a frozen fly.
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While they danced they came over them the weariness with the world, the melancholy, the pity one for the other, which is the exultation of love.
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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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I--love's skein upon the ground, My body in the tomb-- Shall leap into the light lost In my mother's womb.
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One should say before sleeping: I have lived many lives. I have been a slave and a prince. Many a beloved has sat upon my knee and I have sat upon the knees of many a beloved. Everything that has been shall be again.
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Mysticism has been in the past and probably ever will be one of the great powers of the world and it is bad scholarship to pretend the contrary.
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