Quote

Grant me an old man's frenzy, Myself must I remake Till I am Timon and Lear Or that William Blake Who beat upon the wall Till Truth obeyed his call.

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
Call
Frenzy
Upon
William
Truth
Grant
Must
Grants
Obeyed
Men
Till
Lear
Beat
Remake
Beats
Blake
Wall
Remakes

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I went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.
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All that we did, all that we said or sang must come from contact with the soil.
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Our words must seem to be inevitable.
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Hearts with one purpose alone/Through summer and winter seem/Enchanted to a stone/To trouble the living stream.
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It is most important that we should keep in this country a certain leisured class. I am of the opinion of the ancient Jewish book which says there is no wisdom without leisure.
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But O, sick children of the world, Of all the many changing things In dreary dancing past us whirled, To the cracked tune that Chronos sings, Words alone are certain good.
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A tree there is that from its topmost bough Is half all glittering flame and half all green Abounding foliage moistened with the dew And half is half and yet is all the scene And half and half consume what they renew.
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My chair was nearest to the fire In every company That talked of love or politics, Ere Time transfigured me.
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All dreams of the soul End in a beautiful man's or woman's body.
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The common breeds the common, A lout begets a lout, So when I take on half a score I knock their heads about.
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Life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into a common light of common hours, Until old age brings the red flare again.
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I bear a burden that might well try Men that do all by rule, And what can I That am a wandering-witted fool But pray to God that He ease My great responsibilities?
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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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The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.
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The old priest Peter Gilligan Was weary night and day For half his flock were in their beds, Or under green sods lay.
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I cast my heart into my rhymes, That you, in the dim coming times, May know how my heart went with them After the red-rose-bordered hem.
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No man has ever lived that had enough of children's gratitude or woman's love.
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We taste and feel and see the truth. We do not reason ourselves into it.
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