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I agree about Shaw - he is haunted by the mystery he flouts. He is an atheist who trembles in the haunted corridor.

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
Atheist
Agree
Mystery
Trembles
Corridor
Shaw
Corridors
Haunted

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The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.
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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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I have read somewhere that in the Emperor's palace at Byzantium was a tree made of gold and silver, and artificial birds that sang.
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Choose your companions from the best Who draws a bucket with the rest soon topples down the hill.
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An intellectual hatred is the worst.
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Man is in love and loves what vanishes, What more is there to say?
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What man does not understand, he fears and what he fears, he tends to destroy.
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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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The women that I picked spoke sweet and low And yet gave tongue. Hound voices were they all.
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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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Man's life is thought, And he, despite his terror, cannot cease Ravening through century after century, Ravening, raging, and uprooting that he may come Into the desolation of reality.
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Man can embody truth but he cannot know it.
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A line will take us hours maybe Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
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Civilisation is hooped together, brought Under a rule, under the semblance of peace By manifold illusion.
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I had a chair at every hearth, When no one turned to see, With 'Look at that old fellow there, 'And who may he be?
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Bodies of holy men and women exude Miraculous oil, odour of violet. But under heavy loads of trampled clay Lie bodies of the vampires full of blood Their shrouds are bloody and their lips are wet.
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God guard me from those thoughts men think In the mind alone.
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All men live in suffering I know as few can know, Whether they take the upper road Or stay content on the low.
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The night can sweat with terror as before We pieced our thoughts into philosophy, And planned to bring the world under a rule, Who are but weasels fighting in a hole.
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What made us dream that he could comb gray hair?
William Butler Yeats