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When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.
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
Faces
Suddenly
Excited
Wine
Meet
Grow
Grows
Clamber
Sleep
Heights
Face
Height
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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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I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'
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Endure what life God gives and ask no longer span Cease to remember the delights of youth, travel-wearied aged man Delight becomes death-longing if all longing else be vain.
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One man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
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Wine enters through the mouth, Love, the eyes. I raise the glass to my mouth, I look at you, I sigh.
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It is love that I am seeking for, But of a beautiful, unheard-of kind That is not in the world.
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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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The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.
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John Synge, I and Augusta Gregory, thought All that we did, all that we said or sang Must come from contact with the soil, from that Contact everything Antaeus-like grew strong.
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The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.
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The house ghost is usually a harmless and well-meaning creature. It is put up with as long as possible. It brings good luck to those who live with it.
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Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day.
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While man can still his body keep Wine or love drug him to sleep, Waking he thanks the Lord that he Has body and its stupidity.
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And when you sigh from kiss to kiss I hear white Beauty sighing, too, For hours when all must fade like dew.
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There are a few of the open-air spirits the more domestic of their tribe gather within-doors, plentiful as swallows under southern eaves.
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When we have blamed the wind we can blame love.
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Cast your mind on other days that we in coming days may be still the indomitable Irishry.
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He Who is wrapped in purple robes, With planets in His care, Had pity on the least of things Asleep upon a chair.
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For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
William Butler Yeats
