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

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Teaching is not filling up a pail, it is lighting a fire.
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I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind.
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Land of Heart's Desire Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood, But joy is wisdom, time an endless song.
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Education is not filling
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And God would bid His warfare cease, Saying all things were well And softly make a rosy peace, A peace of Heaven with Hell.
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Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned.
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Florence Farr once said to me, If we could say to ourselves, with sincerity, 'this passing moment is as good as any I shall ever know,' we could die upon the instant and be united with God.
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Time can but make her beauty over again.
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Only God, my dear, Could love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.
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Cats are oppressed, dogs terrify them, landladies starve them, boys stone them, everybody speaks of them with contempt. If they were human beings we could talk of their oppressors with a studied violence, add our strength to theirs, even organize the oppressed and like good politicians sell our charity for power.
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Though logic-choppers rule the town, And every man and maid and boy Has marked a distant object down, An aimless joy is a pure joy.
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The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.
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Everything we look upon is blest.
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I see a schoolboy when I think of him, With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window.
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The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.
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A man in his own secret meditation / Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made / In art or politics.
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In the great cities we see so little of the world, we drift into our minority. In the little towns and villages there are no minorities people are not numerous enough. You must see the world there, perforce. Every man is himself a class.
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I have observed dreams and visions very carefully, and am now certain that the imagination has some way of lighting on the truth that the reason has not, and that its commandments, delivered when the body is still and the reason silent, are the most binding we can ever know.
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