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Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?

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
Lost
Doe
Dwell
Losing
Imagination
Upon
Woman

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The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.
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Locke sank into a swoon The Garden died God took the spinning-jenny Out of his side.
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Cuchulain stirred, Stared on the horses of the sea, and heard The cars of battle and his own name cried And fought with the invulnerable tide.
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Only that which does not teach, which does not cry out, which does not condescend, which does not explain, is irresistible.
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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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Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day.
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Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!
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I gave what other women gave That stepped out of their clothes But when this soul, its body off Naked to naked goes, He it has found shall find therein What none other knows.
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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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My temptation is quiet. Here at life's end Neither loose imagination Nor the mill of the mind Consuming its rag and bone, Can make the truth known.
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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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Once you attempt legislation upon religious grounds, you open the way for every kind of intolerance and religious persecution.
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Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.
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I have heard that hysterical women say They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow, Of poets that are always gay
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All that could run or leap or swim Whether in wood, water or cloud, Acclaiming, proclaiming, declaiming Him.
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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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And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?
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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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Things fall apart the center cannot hold.
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Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?
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