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Life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into a common light of common hours, Until old age brings the red flare again.

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
Moving
Moves
Dream
Red
Light
Brings
Life
Fantasy
Dreams
Hours
Age
Common
Flare

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While on that old grey stone I sat Under the old wind-broken tree, I knew that One is animate, Mankind inanimate phantasy.
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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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Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic heart.
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We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.
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I--love's skein upon the ground, My body in the tomb-- Shall leap into the light lost In my mother's womb.
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I knew that I had seen, had seen at last That girl my unremembering nights hold fast Or else my dreams that fly If I should rub an eye, And yet in flying fling into my meat A crazy juice that makes the pulses beat.
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Though I have many words, What woman's satisfied, I am no longer faint Because at her side? O who could have foretold That the heart grows old?
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Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?
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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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Locke sank into a swoon The Garden died God took the spinning-jenny Out of his side.
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How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?
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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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In the great cities we see so little of the world, we drift into our minority. In the little towns and villages there are no minorities people are not numerous enough. You must see the world there, perforce. Every man is himself a class.
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Where the world ends The mind is made unchanging, for it finds Miracle, ecstasy, the impossible hope, The flagstone under all, the fire of fires, The roots of the world.
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The labor of the alchemists, who were called artist in their day, is a befitting comparison for a deliberate change of style.
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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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I broke my heart in two So hard I struck. What matter? for I know That out of rock, Out of a desolate source, Love leaps upon its course.
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Man can embody truth but he cannot know it.
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Nor bird nor beast Could make me wish for anything this day, Being old, but that the old alone might die, And that would be against God's Providence.
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... What matter, so there is but fire In you, in me?
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