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What were all the world's alarms To mighty Paris when he found Sleep upon a golden bed That first dawn in Helen's arms?

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
First
Paris
World
Golden
Bed
Arms
Sleep
Helen
Upon
Alarms
Found
Mighty
Firsts
Dawn

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How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics?
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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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When I think of all the books I have read, and of the wise words I have heard spoken, and of the anxiety I have given to parents and grandparents, and of the hopes that I have had, all life weighed in the scales of my own life seems to me a preparation for something that never happens.
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We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create.
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All hatred driven hence, The soul recovers radical innocence And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will
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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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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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There is only one romance the Soul's.
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Consume my heart away, sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is, and gather me Into the artifice of eternity.
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Earth in beauty dressed Awaits returning spring. All true love must die, Alter at the best Into some lesser thing. Prove that I lie.
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Like a long-legged fly upon the stream / His mind moves upon silence.
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There is no release In a bodkin or disease, Nor can there be a work so great As that which cleans man's dirty slate.
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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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Nor bird nor beast Could make me wish for anything this day, Being old, but that the old alone might die, And that would be against God's Providence.
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All art that is not mere storytelling, or mere portraiture, is symbolic, and has the purpose of those symbolic talismans which medieval magicians made with complex colours and forms, and bade their patients ponder over daily, and guard with holy secrecy for it entangles, in complex colours and forms, a part of the Divine Essence.
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Everything we look upon is blest.
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Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.
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Through winter-time we call on spring, And through the spring on summer call, And when the abounding hedges ring Declare that winter's best of all: And after that there's nothing good Because the spring time has not come- Not know that what disturbs our blood Is but its longing for the tomb.
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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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What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident?
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