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Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.
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
Hands
Sometimes
Heart
Tired
Quiet
Feet
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And the merry love the fiddle, and the merry love to dance.
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We only believe in those thoughts which have been conceived not in the brain but in the whole body.
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The intellect of man is forced to choose Perfection of the life, or of the work And if it take the second must refuse A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.
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It's certain that fine women eat A crazy salad with their meat.
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How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics? Yet here's a travelled man that knows What he talks about, And there's a politician That has read and thought, And maybe what they say is true Of war and war's alarms, But O that I were young again And held her in my arms!
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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
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On the grey rock of Cashel I suddenly saw A Sphinx with woman breast and lion paw, A Buddha, hand at rest, Hand lifted up that blest And right between these two a girl at play That, it may be, had danced her life away.
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The women take so little stock In what I do or say They'd sooner leave their cosseting To hear a jackass bray.
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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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Who mocks at music mocks at love.
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Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill: For there the mystical brotherhood Of sun and moon and hollow and wood And river and stream work out their will.
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What can be explained is not poetry.
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You ask what I have found and far and wide I go, Nothing but Cromwell's house and Cromwell's murderous crew, The lovers and the dancers are beaten into the clay, And the tall men and the swordsmen and the horsemen where are they?
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A poet is a good citizen turned inside out.
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All things fall and are built again, And those that build them again are gay.
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Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
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I kiss you and kiss you, With arms around my own, Ah, how shall I miss you, When, dear, you have grown.
William Butler Yeats
