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So long as all is ordered for attack, and that alone, leaders will instinctively increase the number of enemies that they may give their followers something to do.
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
Something
Numbers
Instinctively
Leader
Ordered
Enemy
Followers
Alone
Attack
Give
Enemies
May
Leaders
Giving
Increase
Long
Number
Ahimsa
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Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned.
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to be choked with hate May well be of all evil chances chief.
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What the world's million lips are searching for, must be substantial somewhere.
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Poet and sculptor, do the work, / Nor let the modish painter shirk
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Come near I would, before my time to go, Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways: Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days.
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Shakespeare cared little for the State, the source of all our judgments, apart from its shows and splendours, its turmoils and battles, its flamings out of the uncivilized heart.
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You know what the Englishman's idea of compromise is? He says, Some people say there is a God. Some people say there is no God. The truth probably lies somewhere between these two statements.
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We are closed in, and the key is turned / On our uncertainty.
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O what fine thought we had because we thought that the worst rogues and rascals had died out.
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How can the arts overcome the slow dying of men's hearts that we call progress ?
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Though leaves are many, the root is one.
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What made us dream that he could comb gray hair?
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All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the plowman, splashing the wintry mold, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.
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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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What's memory but the ash That chokes our fires that have begun to sink?
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Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.
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Farewell - farewell, For I am weary of the weight of time.
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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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O heart, we are old The living beauty is for younger men: We cannot pay its tribute of wild tears.
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I Sing what was lost and dread what was won, / I walk in a battle fought over again.
William Butler Yeats
