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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.

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
Came
Love
World
Exultation
Danced
Weariness
Melancholy
Pity

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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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What do we know but that we face one another in this place?
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Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enameling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
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The only enemy of innocence and beauty is time.
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Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of.
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A thought Of that late death took all my heart for speech.
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The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy Of old the world on dreaming fed Gray Truth is now her painted toy.
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The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.
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Many times man lives and dies Betweeen his two eternities, That of race and that of soul, And ancient Ireland knew it all. Whether man die in his bed Or the rifle knocks him dead
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What can I but enumerate old themes?
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Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.
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... Let the cage bird and the cage bird mate and the wild bird mate in the wild.
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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
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Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World! You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled. Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring The bell that calls us on the sweet far thing.
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I, too, await The hour of thy great wind of love and hate. When shall the stars be blown about the sky, Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?
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And the merry love the fiddle, and the merry love to dance.
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An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick
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I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams.
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One man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
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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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