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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
Judging
Spoilt
Call
Aunts
Grandson
Words
Uncles
Done
Aunt
Great
Sent
Judge
Son
Loins

More quotes by William Butler Yeats

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That toil of growing up The ignominy of boyhood the distress Of boyhood changing into man The unfinished man and his pain.
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Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day.
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Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams
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It is love that I am seeking for, But of a beautiful, unheard-of kind That is not in the world.
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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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Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.
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When I think of all the books I have read, and of the wise words I have heard spoken, and of the anxiety I have given to parents and grandparents, and of the hopes that I have had, all life weighed in the scales of my own life seems to me a preparation for something that never happens.
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Though pedantry denies, It's plain the Bible means That Solomon grew wise While talking with his queens.
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Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun.
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The Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.
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Fair and foul are near of kin And fair needs foul, I cried. My friends are gone, but that's a truth Nor grave nor bed denied.
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How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?
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If what I say resonates with you, it's merely because we're branches of the same tree.
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For wisdom is the property of the dead, A something incompatible with life and power, Like everything that has the stain of blood, A property of the living but no stain Can come upon the visage of the moon When it has looked in glory from a cloud.
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Where there is nothing, there is God.
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Give to these children, new from the world, Rest far from men. Is anything better, anything better? Tell us it then.
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Many ingenious lovely things are gone / That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude.
William Butler Yeats
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When we are high and airy hundreds say That if we hold that flight they'll leave the place, While those same hundreds mock another day Because we have made our art of common things.
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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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O but we dreamed to mend Whatever mischief seemed To afflict mankind, but now That winds of winter blow Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed.
William Butler Yeats