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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
Deep
Lake
Stand
Lakes
Hear
Shore
Sound
Gray
Water
Sounds
Roadway
Heart
Lows
Lapping
Core
Pavements
Loss
Pavement
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Time can but make her beauty over again.
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O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head You'd know the folly of being comforted.
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Cats are oppressed, dogs terrify them, landladies starve them, boys stone them, everybody speaks of them with contempt. If they were human beings we could talk of their oppressors with a studied violence, add our strength to theirs, even organize the oppressed and like good politicians sell our charity for power.
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What can be shown? What true love be? All could be known or shown If Time were but gone.
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One had a lovely face, And two or three had charm, But charm and face were in vain. Because the mountain grass Cannot keep the form Where the mountain hare has lain.
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Labor is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul, Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut tree, great-rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance How can we know the dancer from the dance?
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I have grown to believe that there is no dangerous idea, which does not become less dangerous when written out in sincere and careful English.
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The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.
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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.
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The labor of the alchemists, who were called artist in their day, is a befitting comparison for a deliberate change of style.
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There's keen delight in what we have: The rattle of pebbles on the shore Under the receding wave.
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The living can assist the imagination of the dead.
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The mystical life is at the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.
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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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Fair and foul are near of kin And fair needs foul, I cried. My friends are gone, but that's a truth Nor grave nor bed denied.
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I long for truth, and yet I cannot stay from that My better self disowns, For a man's attention Brings such satisfaction To the craving in my bones.
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Bodily decrepitude is wisdom young We loved each other and were ignorant.
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