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

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The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round, Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound, Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam, Our arms are waving, our lips are apart.
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When two close kindred meet What better than call a dance?.
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All the great masters have understood that there cannot be great art without the little limited life of the fable, which is always better the simpler it is, and the rich, far-wandering, many-imaged life of the half-seen world beyond it
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A living man is blind and drinks his drop. What matter if the ditches are impure? What matter if I live it all once more?
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The old priest Peter Gilligan Was weary night and day For half his flock were in their beds, Or under green sods lay.
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In dreams begins responsibility.
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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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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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I am still of opinion that only two topics can be of the least interest to a serious and studious mood - sex and the dead.
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All that we did, all that we said or sang must come from contact with the soil.
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And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.
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All that I have said and done, Now that I am old and ill, Turns into a question till I lie awake night after night And never get the answers right.
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I have read somewhere that in the Emperor's palace at Byzantium was a tree made of gold and silver, and artificial birds that sang.
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A man in his own secret meditation / Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made / In art or politics.
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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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Chaunt in his ear delusions magical, That he may fight the horses of the sea. The Druids took them to their mystery, And chaunted for three days.
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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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Nor dread nor hope attend a dying animal a man awaits his end dreading and hoping all.
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Heaven blazing into the head: Tragedy wrought to its uttermost. Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages And all the drop-scenes drop at once Upon a hundred thousand stages It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.
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