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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
Doe
Dwell
Losing
Imagination
Upon
Woman
Lost
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Many ingenious lovely things are gone / That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude.
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If there's no hatred in a mind Assault and battery of the wind Can never tear the linnet from the leaf
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Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood, Even where horrible green parrots call and swing. My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud.
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Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream? For these red lips, with all their mournful pride, Mournful that no new wonder may betide, Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam, And Usna's children died.
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The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart.
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Our words must seem to be inevitable.
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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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How can we know the dancer from the dance?
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Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top.
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The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.
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I went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.
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Why should we honour those that die upon the field of battle? A man may show as reckless a courage in entering into the abyss of himself.
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Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.
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The fascination of what's difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content Out of my heart.
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I think all happiness depends on the energy to assume the mask of some other life, on a re-birth as something not one's self.
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A strange thing surely that my Heart, when love had come unsought Upon the Norman upland or in that poplar shade, Should find no burden but itself and yet should be worn out. It could not bear that burden and therefore it went mad.
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I can forgive even that wrong of wrongs, Those undreamt accidents that have made me Seeing that Fame has perished this long while, Being but a part of ancient ceremony Notorious, till all my priceless things Are but a post the passing dogs defile.
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I have found nothing half so good / As my long-planned half solitude, / Where I can sit up half the night / With some friend that has the wit.
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It was my first meeting with a philosophy that confirmed my vague speculations and seemed at once logical and boundless.
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The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.
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