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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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Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.
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What the world's million lips are searching for, must be substantial somewhere.
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The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.
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Sweetheart, do not love too long: I loved long and long, And grew to be out of fashion Like an old song.
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Hearts with one purpose alone/Through summer and winter seem/Enchanted to a stone/To trouble the living stream.
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Him who trembles before the flame and the flood, And the winds that blow through the starry ways, Let the starry winds and the flame and the flood Cover over and hide, for he has no part With the lonely, majestical multitude.
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Evil comes to us men of imagination wearing as its mask all the virtues.
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John Synge, I and Augusta Gregory, thought All that we did, all that we said or sang Must come from contact with the soil, from that Contact everything Antaeus-like grew strong.
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I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping...I hear it in the deep heart's core.
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I had a chair at every hearth, When no one turned to see, With 'Look at that old fellow there, 'And who may he be?
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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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Because I helped to wind the clock, I come to hear it strike.
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I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember
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I can exchange opinion with any neighbouring mind, I have as healthy flesh and blood as any rhymer's had, But O! my Heart could bear no more when the upland caught the wind I ran, I ran, from my love's side because my Heart went mad.
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Poet and sculptor, do the work, / Nor let the modish painter shirk
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Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.
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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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We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.
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The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.
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It was my first meeting with a philosophy that confirmed my vague speculations and seemed at once logical and boundless.
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