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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
Heart
Fare
Love
Enmity
Fantasies
Feds
Brutal
Grown
Substance
Fantasy
Enmities
More quotes by William Butler Yeats
We must not make a false faith by hiding from our thoughts the causes of doubt, for faith is the highest achievement of the human intellect, the only gift man can make to God, and therefore it must be offered in sincerity.
William Butler Yeats
Only the dead can be forgiven But when I think of that my tongue's a stone.
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Time can but make her beauty over again.
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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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A speckled cat and a tame hare Eat at my hearthstone And sleep there And both look up to me alone For learning and defence As I look up to Providence.
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Somewhere beyond the curtain Of distorting days Lives that lonely thing That shone before these eyes Targeted, trod like Spring.
William Butler Yeats
An intellectual hatred is the worst.
William Butler Yeats
That toil of growing up The ignominy of boyhood the distress Of boyhood changing into man The unfinished man and his pain.
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Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.
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Because I helped to wind the clock, I come to hear it strike.
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Everything exists, everything is true and the earth is just a bit of dust beneath our feet.
William Butler Yeats
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?
William Butler Yeats
My father upon the Abbey stage, before him a raging crowd. This Land of Saints, and then as the applause died out, Of plaster Saints his beautiful mischievous head thrown back.
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Cast your mind on other days that we in coming days may be still the indomitable Irishry.
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somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
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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.
William Butler Yeats
A passion-driven exultant man sings out Sentences that he has never thought.
William Butler Yeats
A lonely impulse of delight
William Butler Yeats
Grant me an old man's frenzy, Myself must I remake Till I am Timon and Lear Or that William Blake Who beat upon the wall Till Truth obeyed his call.
William Butler Yeats
I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young / And weep because I know all things now.
William Butler Yeats
