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I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core.
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
Water
Sounds
Roadway
Heart
Lows
Lapping
Core
Pavements
Loss
Pavement
Deep
Lake
Stand
Lakes
Hear
Shore
Sound
Gray
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Now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
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The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away.
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Now must we sing and sing the best we can, But first you must be told your character: Convicted cowards all, by kindred slain.
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Women are hard and proud and stubborn-hearted, Their heads being turned with praise and flattery And that is why their lovers are afraid To tell them a plain story.
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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.
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How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics?
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By logic and reason we die hourly by imagination we live.
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Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.
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I Sing what was lost and dread what was won, / I walk in a battle fought over again.
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Words alone are certain good.
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BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there.
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Test every work of intellect or faith, And everything that your own hands have wrought And call those works extravagance of breath That are not suited for such men as come Proud, open-eyed and laughing to the tomb.
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...How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face... When You Are Old And Gray
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I see a schoolboy when I think of him, With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window.
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Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.
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For Death who takes what man would keep, Leaves what man would lose.
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I am still of opinion that only two topics can be of the least interest to a serious and studious mood - sex and the dead.
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And when you sigh from kiss to kiss I hear white Beauty sighing, too, For hours when all must fade like dew.
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I have nothing more to give you than my heart. Spanish saying Hearts are not to be had as a gift hearts are to be earned.
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One man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
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