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And pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon the golden apples of the sun.

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
Times
Done
Pluck
Time
Apples
Silver
Till
Golden
Sun
Moon

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In dreams begins responsibility.
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Everything we look upon is blest.
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Do not wait to strike till the iron is hot but make it hot by striking.
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The night can sweat with terror as before We pieced our thoughts into philosophy, And planned to bring the world under a rule, Who are but weasels fighting in a hole.
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Come swish around my pretty punk And keep me dancing still That I may stay a sober man Although I drink my fill.
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We cannot doubt that barbaric people receive such influences more visibly and obviously, and in all likelihood more easily and fully than we do, for our life in cities, which deafens or kills the passive meditative life, and our education that enlarges the separated, self-moving mind, have made our souls less sensitive.
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That beautiful mild woman for whose sake There's many a one shall find out all heartache On finding that her voice is sweet and low Replied, 'To be born a woman is to know- Although they do not talk of it at school - That we must labor to be beautiful.
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God spreads the heavens above us like great wings, And gives a little round of deeds and days.
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From our birthday, until we die, Is but the winking of an eye.
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Although our love is waning, let us stand by the lone border of the lake once more, together in that hour of gentleness. When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.
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The Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.
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... What matter, so there is but fire In you, in me?
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yet it seems Life scarce can cast a fragrance on the wind, Scarce spread a glory to the morning beams, But the torn petals strew the garden plot And there's but common greenness after that.
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Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again! The beggars have changed places, but the lash goes on.
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Cast a cold eye on life, on death Horseman pass by
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What can be explained is not poetry.
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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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