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One man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

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
Love
Sorrows
Changing
Sorrow
Loved
Nodding
Face
Bending
Faces
Overhead
Soul
Pilgrim
Men
Glowing

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I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core.
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Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.
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Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate, I find under the boughs of love and hate, In all poor foolish things that live a day, Eternal beauty wandering on her way.
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For to articulate sweet sounds together Is to work harder than all these, and yet Be thought an idler by the noisy set Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen The martyrs call the world.
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Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day. Love's pleasure drives his love away, The painter's brush consumes his dreams.
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There are a few of the open-air spirits the more domestic of their tribe gather within-doors, plentiful as swallows under southern eaves.
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All that we did, all that we said or sang must come from contact with the soil.
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There where the course is, Delight makes all of the one mind, The riders upon the galloping horses, The crowd that closes in behind.
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There is no release In a bodkin or disease, Nor can there be a work so great As that which cleans man's dirty slate.
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Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.
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What can be explained is not poetry.
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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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Civilisation is hooped together, brought Under a rule, under the semblance of peace By manifold illusion.
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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 dreamed that I stood in a valley, and amid sighs, For happy lovers passed two by two where I stood And I dreamed my lost love came stealthily out of the wood With her cloud-pale eyelids falling on dream-dimmed eyes.
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My chair was nearest to the fire In every company That talked of love or politics, Ere Time transfigured me.
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I am of a healthy long lived race, and our minds improve with age.
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Cast your mind on other days that we in coming days may be still the indomitable Irishry.
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Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?
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Many times man lives and dies Betweeen his two eternities, That of race and that of soul, And ancient Ireland knew it all. Whether man die in his bed Or the rifle knocks him dead
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