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I call on those that call me son, Grandson, or great-grandson, On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts, To judge what I have done. Have I, that put it into words, Spoilt what old loins have sent?
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
Sent
Judge
Son
Loins
Judging
Spoilt
Call
Aunts
Words
Grandson
Done
Uncles
Great
Aunt
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Even the wisest man grows tense With some sort of violence Before he can accomplish fate, Know his work or choose his mate. Poet and sculptor, do the work, Nor let the modish painter shirk
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Now must we sing and sing the best we can, But first you must be told your character: Convicted cowards all, by kindred slain.
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The friends that have it I do wrong Whenever I remake a song, Should know what issue is at stake: It is myself that I remake.
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There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.
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I spit into the face of time that has transfigured me
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I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .
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We can only begin to live when we conceive life as Tragedy.
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God spreads the heavens above us like great wings, And gives a little round of deeds and days.
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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.
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Man's life is thought, And he, despite his terror, cannot cease Ravening through century after century, Ravening, raging, and uprooting that he may come Into the desolation of reality.
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Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.
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A poet is a good citizen turned inside out.
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Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.
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Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.
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But boys and girls, pale from the imagined love Of solitary beds, knew what they were, That passion could bring character enough And pressed at midnighht in some public place Live lips upon a plummet-measured face.
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Acquaintance companion One dear brilliant woman The best-endowed, the elect, All by their youth undone, All, all, by that inhuman Bitter glory wrecked.
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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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My temptation is quiet. Here at life's end Neither loose imagination Nor the mill of the mind Consuming its rag and bone, Can make the truth known.
William Butler Yeats
