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All art is in the last analysis an endeavor to condense as out of the flying vapor of the world an image of human perfection, and for its own and not for the art's sake.

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
Sake
Lasts
Condense
Last
Vapor
Art
Endeavor
Human
Analysis
Humans
Flying
World
Image
Perfection

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Swift has sailed into his rest Savage indignation there Cannot lacerate his breast Imitate him if you dare, World-besotted traveler he Served human liberty.
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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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. . . you may think I waste my breath Pretending that there can be passion That has more life in it than death
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The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.
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He only can create the greatest imaginable beauty who has endured all imaginable pangs, for only when we have seen and foreseen what we dread shall we be rewarded by that dazzling unforeseen wing-footed wanderer.
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Cast a cold eye on life, on death Horseman pass by
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Cuchulain stirred, Stared on the horses of the sea, and heard The cars of battle and his own name cried And fought with the invulnerable tide.
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But stories that live longest Are sung above the glass, And Parnell loved his country And Parnell loved his lass.
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Shakespearean fish swam the sea, far away from land Romantic fish swam in nets coming to the hand.
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How can the arts overcome the slow dying of men's hearts that we call progress ?
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All hatred driven hence, The soul recovers radical innocence And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will
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Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?
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Farewell - farewell, For I am weary of the weight of time.
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Nothing but stillness can remain when hearts are full Of their own sweetness, bodies of their loveliness.
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I see a schoolboy when I think of him, With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window.
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Literature is always personal, always one man's vision of the world, one man's experience, and it can only be popular when men are ready to welcome the visions of others.
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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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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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Though logic-choppers rule the town, And every man and maid and boy Has marked a distant object down, An aimless joy is a pure joy.
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I would that I were an old beggar Rolling a blind pearl eye, For he cannot see my lady Go gallivanting by.
William Butler Yeats