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

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Grant me an old man's frenzy, Myself must I remake Till I am Timon and Lear Or that William Blake Who beat upon the wall Till Truth obeyed his call.
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Processions that lack high stilts have nothing that catches the eye. What if my great-granddad had a pair that were twenty foot high, And mine were but fifteen foot, no modern stalks upon higher, Some rogue of the world stole them to patch up a fence or a fire.
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How can the arts overcome the slow dying of men's hearts that we call progress ?
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The world being illusive, one must be deluded in some way if one is to triumph in it.
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True love is a discipline in which each divines the secret self of the other and refuses to believe in the mere daily self.
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All things fall and are built again, And those that build them again are gay.
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And God, the herdsman, goads them on behind.
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All empty souls tend toward extreme opinions.
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A passion-driven exultant man sings out Sentences that he has never thought.
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Before me floats an image, man or shade, / Shade more than man, more image than a shade.
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For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
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Time drops in decay Like a candle burnt out. And the mountains and woods Have their day, have their day But, kindly old rout Of the fire-born moods, You pass not away.
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The Bishop has a skin, God knows, Wrinkled like the foot of a goose, (All find safety in the tomb.) Nor can he hide in holy black The heron's hunch upon his back, But a birch-tree stood my Jack.
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The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy Of old the world on dreaming fed Gray Truth is now her painted toy.
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When an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay Our hearts endure the scourge, the plaited thorns, the way Crowded with bitter faces, the wounds in palm and side, The vinegar-heavy sponge, the flowers by Kedron stream.
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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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Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer Things fall apart the centre cannot hold Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.
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