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Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned.
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
Mere
Tide
Blood
Ceremony
Upon
Anarchy
World
Tides
Intensity
Dimmed
Innocence
Loosed
Chaos
Falcon
Everywhere
Drowned
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Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
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Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.
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In luck or out the toil has left its mark: That old perplexity an empty purse, Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.
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What if I bade you leave The cavern of the mind? There's better exercise In the sunlight and wind.
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Fairies in Ireland are sometimes as big as we are, sometimes bigger, and sometimes, as I have been told, about three feet high.
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A pity beyond all telling is hid in the heart of love.
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I have often had the fancy that there is some one Myth for every man, which, if we but knew it, would make us understand all he did and thought.
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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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The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.
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I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful. One almost expects the people to sing instead of speaking. It is all like an opera.
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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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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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For men were born to pray and save: Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.
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It's certain that fine women eat A crazy salad with their meat.
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Cast a cold eye on life, on death Horseman pass by
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Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.
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A symbol is indeed the only possible expression of some invisible essence, a transparent lamp about a spiritual flame while allegory is one of many possible representations of an embodied thing, or familiar principle, and belongs to fancy and not to imagination: the one is a revelation, the other an amusement.
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A passion-driven exultant man sings out Sentences that he has never thought.
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Words alone are certain good.
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I see a schoolboy when I think of him, With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window.
William Butler Yeats
