Quote

When such as I cast out remorse So great a sweetness flows into the breast We must laugh and we must sing, We are blest by everything, Everything we look upon is blessed.

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
Must
Laugh
Flows
Great
Awareness
Sweetness
Heart
Laughing
Breasts
Joy
Cast
Upon
Casts
Look
Sing
Blest
Everything
Blessed
Remorse
Looks
Flow
Breast

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What if the Church and the State Are the mob that howls at the door! Wine shall run thick to the end, Bread taste sour.
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Beloved, let your eyes half close, and your heart beat Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast, Drowning love's lonely hour in deep twilight of rest.
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And pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon the golden apples of the sun.
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A living man is blind and drinks his drop. What matter if the ditches are impure? What matter if I live it all once more?
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To be born woman is to know - although they do not speak of it at school - women must labor to be beautiful.
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All think what other people think All know the man their neighbor knows. Lord, what would they say Did their Catullus walk that way?
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And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.
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No art can conquer the people alone-the people are conquered by an ideal of life upheld by authority.
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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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Give to these children, new from the world, Rest far from men. Is anything better, anything better? Tell us it then.
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It's certain there is no fine thing Since Adam's fall but needs much laboring.
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My chair was nearest to the fire In every company That talked of love or politics, Ere Time transfigured me.
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Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room As though dried straw, and if we turn about The bare chimney is gone black out Because the work had finished in that flare.
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The fascination of what's difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content Out of my heart.
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There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.
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I--love's skein upon the ground, My body in the tomb-- Shall leap into the light lost In my mother's womb.
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No man, even though he be Shakespeare, can write perfectly when his web is woven of threads that have been spun in many lands.
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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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There is only one romance the Soul's.
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For to articulate sweet sounds together Is to work harder than all these, and yet Be thought an idler by the noisy set Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen The martyrs call the world.
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