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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
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
Tear
Hatred
Tears
Wind
Battery
Mind
Batteries
Never
Leafs
Leaf
Assault
More quotes by William Butler Yeats
Swift has sailed into his rest Savage indignation there Cannot lacerate his breast Imitate him if you dare, World-besotted traveler he Served human liberty.
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Surely among a rich man's flowering lawns, Amid the rustle of his planted hills, Life overflows without ambitious pains And rains down life until the basin spills, And mounts more dizzy high the more it rains As though to choose whatever shape it wills.
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Love comes in at the eye.
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Chaunt in his ear delusions magical, That he may fight the horses of the sea. The Druids took them to their mystery, And chaunted for three days.
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A tree there is that from its topmost bough Is half all glittering flame and half all green Abounding foliage moistened with the dew And half is half and yet is all the scene And half and half consume what they renew.
William Butler Yeats
While Michael Angelo's Sistine roof, His Morning and his Night disclose How sinew that has been pulled tight, Or it may be loosened in repose, Can rule by supernatural right Yet be but sinew.
William Butler Yeats
The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.
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Why should the imagination of a man Long past his prime remember things that are Emblematical of love and war?
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Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.
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Only that which does not teach, which does not cry out, which does not condescend, which does not explain, is irresistible.
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The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.
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I went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.
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All that we did, all that we said or sang must come from contact with the soil.
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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
William Butler Yeats
Where there is nothing, there is God.
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The hare grows old as she plays in the sun And gazes around her with eyes of brightness Before the swift things that she dreamed of were done She limps along in an aged whiteness.
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I made my song a coat Covered with embroideries Out of old mythologies From heel to throat But the fools caught it, Wore it in the world's eyes As though they'd wrought it. Song, let them take it, For there's more enterprise In walking naked.
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I thought no more was needed Youth to prolong Than dumb-bell and foil To keep the body young. O who could have foretold That the heart grows old?
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There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.
William Butler Yeats
Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day.
William Butler Yeats
