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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
Substance
Fantasy
Enmities
Heart
Fare
Love
Enmity
Fantasies
Feds
Brutal
Grown

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Everything in nature is resurrection.
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The Father and His angelic hierarchy That made the magnitude and glory there Stood in the circuit of a needle's eye.
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I call on those that call me son, Grandson, or great-grandson, On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts, To judge what I have done. Have I, that put it into words, Spoilt what old loins have sent?
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All the wild-witches, those most notable ladies For all their broom-sticks and their tears, Their angry tears, are gone.
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What man does not understand, he fears and what he fears, he tends to destroy.
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Joy is of the will which labours, which overcomes obstacles, which knows triumph.
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All art is in the last analysis an endeavor to condense as out of the flying vapor of the world an image of human perfection, and for its own and not for the art's sake.
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The common breeds the common, A lout begets a lout, So when I take on half a score I knock their heads about.
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Nor bird nor beast Could make me wish for anything this day, Being old, but that the old alone might die, And that would be against God's Providence.
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A statesman is an easy man, he tells his lies by rote. A journalist invents his lies, and rams them down your throat. So stay at home and drink your beer and let the neighbors vote.
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Things fall apart the center cannot hold.
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Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.
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What can I but enumerate old themes?
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The light of lights looks always on the motive, not the deed, the shadow of shadows on the deed alone.
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The true faith discovered was When painted panel, statuary, Glass-mosaic, window-glass, Amended what was told awry By some peasant gospeler.
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And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.
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An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick, unless soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing for every tatter in its mortal dress.
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Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enameling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
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Processions that lack high stilts have nothing that catches the eye. What if my great-granddad had a pair that were twenty foot high, And mine were but fifteen foot, no modern stalks upon higher, Some rogue of the world stole them to patch up a fence or a fire.
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O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head You'd know the folly of being comforted.
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