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Oh, Love is the crooked thing, there is nobody wise enough to find out all that is in it, for he will be thinking about love til the stars run away and the shadows eaten the moon.

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
Nobody
Thinking
Wise
Stars
Running
Crooked
Away
Eaten
Find
Shadows
Enough
Shadow
Thing
Moon

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The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves The brilliant moon and all the milky sky And all that famous harmony of leaves Had blotted out man's image and his cry.
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Supreme art is a traditional statement of certain heroic and religious truth, passed on from age to age, modified by individual genius, but never abandoned.
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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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Come, fix upon me that accusing eye. I thirst for accusation. All that was sung. All that was said in Ireland is a lie Breed out of the contagion of the throng, Saving the rhyme rats hear before they die.
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For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
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For those that love the world serve it in action, Grow rich, popular, and full of influence And should they paint or write still is it action, The struggle of the fly in marmalade.
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O heart the winds have shaken, the unappeasable host Is comelier than candles at Mother Mary's feet.
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Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again! The beggars have changed places, but the lash goes on.
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What shall I do for pretty girls Now my old bawd is dead?
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And pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon the golden apples of the sun.
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If Michael, leader of God's host When Heaven and Hell are met, Looked down on you from Heaven's door-post He would his deeds forget.
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... What matter, so there is but fire In you, in me?
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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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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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But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.
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There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.
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It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is
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I would that there was nothing in the world But my beloved that night and day had perished, And all that is and all that is to be, All that is not the meeting of our lips.
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