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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.
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
Great
Understands
Prison
Garden
Fool
Learning
Poor
Insects
Eye
Purple
Hands
Butterfly
More quotes by William Butler Yeats
Shakespearean fish swam the sea, far away from land Romantic fish swam in nets coming to the hand.
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Whatever flames upon the night Man's own resinous heart has fed.
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Who mocks at music mocks at love.
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Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day. Love's pleasure drives his love away, The painter's brush consumes his dreams.
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Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.
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What made us dream that he could comb gray hair?
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Why should I seek for love or study it? It is of God and passes human wit I study hatred with great diligence, For that's a passion in my own control, A sort of besom that can clear the soul Of everything that is not mind or sense.
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On limestone quarried near the spot By his command these words are cut: Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by!
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People who lean on logic and philosophy and rational exposition end by starving the best part of the mind.
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Now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
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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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I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not love.
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I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember
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Because this age and the next age Engender in the ditch, No man can know a happy man From any passing wretch, If Folly link with Elegance No man knows which is which.
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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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For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
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The mystical life is the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write. . . . I have always considered myself a voice of what I believe to be a greater renaissance - the revolt of the soul against the intellect.
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Only God, my dear, Could love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.
William Butler Yeats
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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I summon to the winding ancient stair Set all your mind upon the steep ascent
William Butler Yeats
