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Much did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue It speeds the parting guest.

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
Oppressed
Rage
Tongue
Speed
Speeds
Young
Parting
Much
Guest
World
Flattering
Guests

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Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a while.
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Because this age and the next age Engender in the ditch, No man can know a happy man From any passing wretch, If Folly link with Elegance No man knows which is which.
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One should not lose one's temper unless one is certain of getting more and more angry to the end.
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Who mocks at music mocks at love.
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A statesman is an easy man, he tells his lies by rote. A journalist invents his lies, and rams them down your throat. So stay at home and drink your beer and let the neighbors vote.
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No art can conquer the people alone-the people are conquered by an ideal of life upheld by authority.
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I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping...I hear it in the deep heart's core.
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Style, personality - deliberately adopted and therefore a mask - is the only escape from the hot-faced bargainers and money-changers.
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Choose your companions from the best Who draws a bucket with the rest soon topples down the hill.
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A passion-driven exultant man sings out Sentences that he has never thought.
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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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Him who trembles before the flame and the flood, And the winds that blow through the starry ways, Let the starry winds and the flame and the flood Cover over and hide, for he has no part With the lonely, majestical multitude.
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Acquaintance companion One dear brilliant woman The best-endowed, the elect, All by their youth undone, All, all, by that inhuman Bitter glory wrecked.
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Man can embody truth but he cannot know it.
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. . . you may think I waste my breath Pretending that there can be passion That has more life in it than death
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Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill: For there the mystical brotherhood Of sun and moon and hollow and wood And river and stream work out their will.
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All that I have said and done, Now that I am old and ill, Turns into a question till I lie awake night after night And never get the answers right.
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It's certain that fine women eat A crazy salad with their meat.
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What the world's million lips are searching for, must be substantial somewhere.
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