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The unpurged images of day recede The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed Night resonance recedes, night-walkers' song After great cathedral gong.

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
Emperor
Gong
Images
Recedes
Song
Gongs
Night
Cathedral
Great
Drunken
Walkers
Cathedrals
Abed
Resonance
Recede

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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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How could passion run so deep Had I never thought That the crime of being born Blackens all our lot?
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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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And that enquiring man John Synge comes next, That dying chose the living world for text And never could have rested in the tomb But that, long travelling, he had come Towards nightfall upon certain set apart In a most desolate stony place.
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It is love that I am seeking for, But of a beautiful, unheard-of kind That is not in the world.
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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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It's certain there are trout somewhere - And maybe I shall take a trout - but I do not seem to care.
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Only the dead can be forgiven But when I think of that my tongue's a stone.
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Eyes spiritualised by death can judge, I cannot, but I am not content.
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And learn that the best thing is To change my loves while dancing And pay but a kiss for a kiss.
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Do you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns? I have been changed to a hound with one red ear I have been in the Path of Stones and the Wood of Thorns.
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If I make the lashes dark And the eyes more bright And the lips more scarlet, Or ask if all be right From mirror after mirror, No vanity's displayed: I'm looking for the face I had Before the world was made.
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Great literature has always been written in a like spirit, and is, indeed, the Forgiveness of Sin, and when we find it becoming the Accusation of Sin, as in George Eliot, who plucks her Tito in pieces with as much assurance as if he had been clockwork, literature has begun to change into something else.
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But bear in mind your lover's wage Is what your looking-glass can show, And that he will turn green with rage At all that is not pictured there.
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I sat, a solitary man, In a crowded London shop, An open book and empty cup On the marble table-top. While on the shop and street I gazed My body of a sudden blazed And twenty minutes more or less It seemed, so great my happiness, That I was blessed and could bless.
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My wretched dragon is perplexed.
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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.
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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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