Quote

The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves The brilliant moon and all the milky sky And all that famous harmony of leaves Had blotted out man's image and his cry.

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
Image
Sparrow
Fame
Sparrows
Moon
Famous
Men
Leaves
Brilliant
Brawling
Harmony
Eaves
Sky
Blotted
Cry
Milky

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The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.
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You ask what I have found and far and wide I go, Nothing but Cromwell's house and Cromwell's murderous crew, The lovers and the dancers are beaten into the clay, And the tall men and the swordsmen and the horsemen where are they?
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I am content to live it all again And yet again, if it be life to pitch Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch.
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Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.
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Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.
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Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood, Even where horrible green parrots call and swing. My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud.
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Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?
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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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Cast a cold eye on life, on death Horseman pass by
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Ah, let us kiss each other's eyes,/And laugh our love away.
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For those that love the world serve it in action, Grow rich, popular, and full of influence And should they paint or write still is it action, The struggle of the fly in marmalade.
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I have read somewhere that in the Emperor's palace at Byzantium was a tree made of gold and silver, and artificial birds that sang.
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We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
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I long for truth, and yet I cannot stay from that My better self disowns, For a man's attention Brings such satisfaction To the craving in my bones.
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Everything that's lovely is But a brief, dreamy kind of delight.
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Evil comes to us men of imagination wearing as its mask all the virtues.
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Poetry and music I have banished, But the stupidity Of root, shoot, blossom or clay Makes no demand. I bend my body to the spade Or grope with a dirty hand.
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I always think a great speaker convinces us not by force of reasoning, but because he is visibly enjoying the beliefs he wants us to accept.
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All through the years of our youth Neither could have known Their own thought from the other's, We were so much at one.
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. . . you may think I waste my breath Pretending that there can be passion That has more life in it than death
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