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Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds.

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
Men
Clouds
Bade
Delight
Tumult
Lonely
Cheering
Duty
Drove
Fight
Cheer
Public
Impulse
Law
Crowds
Fighting
Loneliness

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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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The soul of man is of the imperishable substance of the stars!
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This great purple butterfly, In the prison of my hands, Has a learning in his eye Not a poor fool understands.
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Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams
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A mouth that has no moisture and no breath Breathless mouths may summon I hail the superhuman I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.
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Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
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Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.
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Choose your companions from the best Who draws a bucket with the rest soon topples down the hill.
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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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How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.
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I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping...I hear it in the deep heart's core.
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There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.
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Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams I have spread my dreams under your feet Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
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... What matter, so there is but fire In you, in me?
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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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Civilisation is hooped together, brought Under a rule, under the semblance of peace By manifold illusion.
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Though I have many words, What woman's satisfied, I am no longer faint Because at her side? O who could have foretold That the heart grows old?
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Mock mockers after that That would not lift a hand maybe To help good, wise or great To bar that foul storm out, for we Traffic in mockery.
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The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.
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I have often had the fancy that there is some one Myth for every man, which, if we but knew it, would make us understand all he did and thought.
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