Quote

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.

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
Natural
Sufficient
Beautiful
Consider
Ends
Kindness
Find
Friend
Overmuch
Right
Lose
Distraught
Heart
Loses
Chooses
Made
Maybe
Revealing
Never
Beauty
Intimacy

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Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.
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I spit into the face of time that has transfigured me
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Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
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O would, beloved, that you lay Under the dock-leaves in the ground, While lights were paling one by one.
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All that I have said and done, Now that I am old and ill, Turns into a question till I lie awake night after night And never get the answers right.
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Though leaves are many, the root is one.
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While man can still his body keep Wine or love drug him to sleep, Waking he thanks the Lord that he Has body and its stupidity.
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Man's life is thought, And he, despite his terror, cannot cease Ravening through century after century, Ravening, raging, and uprooting that he may come Into the desolation of reality.
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I sat on cushioned otter-skin: My word was law from Ith to Emain, And shook at Invar Amargin The hearts of the world-troubling seamen, And drove tumult and war away.
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Hearts with one purpose alone/Through summer and winter seem/Enchanted to a stone/To trouble the living stream.
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For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.
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I kiss you and kiss you, With arms around my own, Ah, how shall I miss you, When, dear, you have grown.
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You that would judge me, do not judge alone this book or that, come to this hallowed place where my friends' portraits hang and look thereon Ireland's history in their lineaments trace think where man's glory most begins and ends and say my glory was I had such friends.
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Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top.
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I had a chair at every hearth, When no one turned to see, With 'Look at that old fellow there, 'And who may he be?
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And wisdom is a butterfly And not a gloomy bird of prey.
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Everything in nature is resurrection.
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There is no release In a bodkin or disease, Nor can there be a work so great As that which cleans man's dirty slate.
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I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember
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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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