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I cast my heart into my rhymes, That you, in the dim coming times, May know how my heart went with them After the red-rose-bordered hem.

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
Coming
Hem
Went
Rhymes
Times
Rhyme
May
Cast
Heart
Casts
Red
Rose
Flower
Bordered

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Love is based on inequality as friendship is on equality.
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And God, the herdsman, goads them on behind.
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Ecstasy is from the contemplation of things vaster than the individual and imperfectly seen perhaps, by all those that still live.
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Our words must seem to be inevitable.
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O would, beloved, that you lay Under the dock-leaves in the ground, While lights were paling one by one.
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An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick
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And when you sigh from kiss to kiss I hear white Beauty sighing, too, For hours when all must fade like dew.
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That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees - Those dying generations-at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unaging intellect.
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only an aching heart Conceives a changeless work of art.
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For what but eye and ear silence the mind With the minute particulars of mankind?
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It's certain that fine women eat A crazy salad with their meat.
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It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is
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Acquaintance companion One dear brilliant woman The best-endowed, the elect, All by their youth undone, All, all, by that inhuman Bitter glory wrecked.
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If a powerful and benevolent spirit has shaped the destiny of this world, we can better discover that destiny from the words that have gathered up the heart's desire of the world, than from historical records, or from speculation, wherein the heart withers.
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Only God, my dear, Could love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.
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But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.
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But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?
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Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.
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I'm looking for the face I had, before the world was made.
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Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.
William Butler Yeats