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The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

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
Bestial
Unsatisfied
Uncontrollable
Floor
Mystery

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There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.
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All things can tempt me from this craft of verse: One time it was a woman's face, or worse-- The seeming needs of my fool-driven land Now nothing but comes readier to the hand Than this accustomed toil.
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A poet is a good citizen turned inside out.
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Because of something told under the famished horn Of the hunter's moon, that hung between the night and the day, To dream of women whose beauty was folded in dismay, Even in an old story, is a burden not to be borne.
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Speech after long silence it is right, All other lovers being estranged or dead . . . That we descant and yet again descant Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song: Bodily decrepitude is wisdom young We loved each other and were ignorant.
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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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Like a long-legged fly upon the stream / His mind moves upon silence.
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Who mocks at music mocks at love.
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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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The light of lights looks always on the motive, not the deed, the shadow of shadows on the deed alone.
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We can make our minds so like still water that beings gather about us that they may see, it may be, their own images, and so live for a moment with a clearer, perhaps even with a fiercer life because of our quiet.
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All art is in the last analysis an endeavor to condense as out of the flying vapor of the world an image of human perfection, and for its own and not for the art's sake.
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We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.
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Boughs have their fruit and blossom At all times of the year Rivers are running over With red beer and brown beer.
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Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.
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The visible world is no longer a reality and the unseen world no longer a dream.
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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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Fair and foul are near of kin And fair needs foul, I cried. My friends are gone, but that's a truth Nor grave nor bed denied.
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A man in his own secret meditation / Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made / In art or politics.
William Butler Yeats
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Bodily decrepitude is wisdom young We loved each other and were ignorant.
William Butler Yeats