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Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.

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
Odor
Tolerance
Vain
Discipline
Blood
Christ
Made
Slain
Platonic

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Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a while.
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There are no strangers here Only friends you haven't yet met.
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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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The only enemy of innocence and beauty is time.
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All men live in suffering I know as few can know, Whether they take the upper road Or stay content on the low.
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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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If there's no hatred in a mind Assault and battery of the wind Can never tear the linnet from the leaf
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For such, Being made beautiful overmuch, Consider beauty a sufficient end, Lose natural kindness and maybe The heart-revealing intimacy That chooses right, and never find a friend.
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A symbol is indeed the only possible expression of some invisible essence, a transparent lamp about a spiritual flame while allegory is one of many possible representations of an embodied thing, or familiar principle, and belongs to fancy and not to imagination: the one is a revelation, the other an amusement.
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now I bring full-flavoured wine out of a barrel found Where seven Ephesian topers slept and never knew When Alexander's empire passed, they slept so sound.
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Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill: For there the mystical brotherhood Of sun and moon and hollow and wood And river and stream work out their will.
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The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart.
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Farewell - farewell, For I am weary of the weight of time.
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Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?
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Designs in connection with postage stamps and coinage may be described, I think, as the silent ambassadors on national taste.
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The problem wiv some blokes is that wen they ain't drunk, they're sober.
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THOUGH you are in your shining days, Voices among the crowd And new friends busy with your praise, Be not unkind or proud, But think about old friends the most: Time's bitter flood will rise, Your beauty perish and be lost For all eyes but these eyes.
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O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head You'd know the folly of being comforted.
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Our words must seem to be inevitable.
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