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

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The visible world is no longer a reality and the unseen world no longer a dream.
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Gaze no more in the bitter glass The demons, with their subtle guile, Lift up before us when they pass, Or only gaze a little while.
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Bid imagination run / Much on the Great Questioner / What He can question, what if questioned I / Can with a fitting confidence reply.
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I weave the shoes of Sorrow: Soundless shall be the footfall light In all men's ears of Sorrow, Sudden and light.
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Tis the eternal law, That first in beauty should be first in might.
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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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Eyes spiritualised by death can judge, I cannot, but I am not content.
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The poor have very few hours in which to enjoy themselves they must take their pleasure raw they haven't the time to cook it.
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While Michael Angelo's Sistine roof, His Morning and his Night disclose How sinew that has been pulled tight, Or it may be loosened in repose, Can rule by supernatural right Yet be but sinew.
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Boughs have their fruit and blossom At all times of the year Rivers are running over With red beer and brown beer.
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I Sing what was lost and dread what was won, / I walk in a battle fought over again.
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The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.
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The intellect of man is forced to choose Perfection of the life, or of the work And if it take the second must refuse A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.
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Evil comes to us men of imagination wearing as its mask all the virtues.
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And when you sigh from kiss to kiss I hear white Beauty sighing, too, For hours when all must fade like dew.
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We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.
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Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.
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I have grown to believe that there is no dangerous idea, which does not become less dangerous when written out in sincere and careful English.
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Though logic-choppers rule the town, And every man and maid and boy Has marked a distant object down, An aimless joy is a pure joy.
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