Quote

I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.

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
May
Fashion
Foolishness
Men
Prayer
Round
Dies
Rounds
Word
Foolish
Though
Pray
Comes
Passionate
Death
Praying
Seems
Seem

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And that enquiring man John Synge comes next, That dying chose the living world for text And never could have rested in the tomb But that, long travelling, he had come Towards nightfall upon certain set apart In a most desolate stony place.
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I--though heart might find relief Did I become a Christian man and choose for my belief What seems most welcome in the tomb--play a predestined part. Homer is my example and his unchristened heart.
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Education is not filling
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I know, although when looks meet I tremble to the bone, The more I leave the door unlatched The sooner love is gone.
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Love is based on inequality as friendship is on equality.
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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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Nothing that we love overmuch Is ponderable to our touch.
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We cannot doubt that barbaric people receive such influences more visibly and obviously, and in all likelihood more easily and fully than we do, for our life in cities, which deafens or kills the passive meditative life, and our education that enlarges the separated, self-moving mind, have made our souls less sensitive.
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All that could run or leap or swim Whether in wood, water or cloud, Acclaiming, proclaiming, declaiming Him.
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Nor dread nor hope attend a dying animal a man awaits his end dreading and hoping all.
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And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.
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I would that I were an old beggar Rolling a blind pearl eye, For he cannot see my lady Go gallivanting by.
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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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The women take so little stock In what I do or say They'd sooner leave their cosseting To hear a jackass bray.
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While they danced they came over them the weariness with the world, the melancholy, the pity one for the other, which is the exultation of love.
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The only enemy of innocence and beauty is time.
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While Michael Angelo's Sistine roof, His Morning and his Night disclose How sinew that has been pulled tight, Or it may be loosened in repose, Can rule by supernatural right Yet be but sinew.
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I call on those that call me son, Grandson, or great-grandson, On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts, To judge what I have done. Have I, that put it into words, Spoilt what old loins have sent?
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