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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
Guests
Oppressed
Rage
Tongue
Speed
Speeds
Young
Parting
Much
Guest
World
Flattering
More quotes by William Butler Yeats
An age is the reversal of an age: When strangers murdered Emmet, Fitzgerald, Tone, We lived like men that watch a painted stage. What matter for the scene, the scene once gone: It had not touched our lives.
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Education is not filling
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But stories that live longest Are sung above the glass, And Parnell loved his country And Parnell loved his lass.
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And there's a score of duchesses, surpassing womankind, Or who have found a painter to make them so for pay And smooth out stain and blemish with the elegance of his mind: I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.
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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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Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream? For these red lips, with all their mournful pride, Mournful that no new wonder may betide, Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam, And Usna's children died.
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The Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.
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For Death who takes what man would keep, Leaves what man would lose.
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The Irishman sustains himself during brief periods of joy by the knowledge that tragedy is just around the corner.
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I thought no more was needed Youth to prolong Than dumb-bell and foil To keep the body young. O who could have foretold That the heart grows old?
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If what I say resonates with you, it's merely because we're branches of the same tree.
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Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
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I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful. One almost expects the people to sing instead of speaking. It is all like an opera.
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Eyes spiritualised by death can judge, I cannot, but I am not content.
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A poet is a good citizen turned inside out.
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Only the dead can be forgiven But when I think of that my tongue's a stone.
William Butler Yeats
From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged / In rambling talk with an image of air: / Vague memories, nothing but memories.
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To be born woman is to know - although they do not speak of it at school - women must labor to be beautiful.
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My wretched dragon is perplexed.
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Great Powers of falling wave and wind and windy fire, With your harmonious choir Encircle her I love and sing her into peace, That my old care may cease.
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