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Consume my heart away, sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is, and gather me Into the artifice of eternity.

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
Away
Artifice
Heart
Consume
Gather
Eternity
Sick
Dying
Animal
Desire
Fastened

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even The bed of love, that in the imagination Had seemed to be the giver of all peace, Is no more than a wine-cup in the tasting, And as soon finished.
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It takes more courage to dig deep in the dark corners of your own soul and the back alleys of your society than it does for a soldier to fight on the battlefield.
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The world being illusive, one must be deluded in some way if one is to triumph in it.
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While they danced they came over them the weariness with the world, the melancholy, the pity one for the other, which is the exultation of love.
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What were all the world's alarms To mighty Paris when he found Sleep upon a golden bed That first dawn in Helen's arms?
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Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?
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What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident?
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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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Give to these children, new from the world, Rest far from men. Is anything better, anything better? Tell us it then.
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The women take so little stock In what I do or say They'd sooner leave their cosseting To hear a jackass bray.
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My wretched dragon is perplexed.
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From our birthday, until we die, Is but the winking of an eye.
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I have nothing but the embittered sun Banished heroic mother moon and vanished, And now that I have come to fifty years I must endure the timid sun.
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I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea! We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fadeand flee And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky, Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die.
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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 worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.
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I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember
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Poet and sculptor, do the work, / Nor let the modish painter shirk
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What shall I do with this absurdity- O heart, O troubled heart-this caricature, Decrepit age that has been tied to me As to a dog's tail? Never had I more Excited, passionate, fantastical Imagination, nor an ear and eye That more expected the impossible.
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Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.
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