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I Sing what was lost and dread what was won, / I walk in a battle fought over again.
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
Walks
Winning
Lost
Dread
Fought
Sing
Battle
Walk
More quotes by William Butler Yeats
Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.
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What if I bade you leave The cavern of the mind? There's better exercise In the sunlight and wind.
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From our birthday, until we die, Is but the winking of an eye.
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An intellectual hatred is the worst.
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What can be explained is not poetry.
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When we have blamed the wind we can blame love.
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We taste and feel and see the truth. We do not reason ourselves into it.
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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.
William Butler Yeats
An age is the reversal of an age: When strangers murdered Emmet, Fitzgerald, Tone, We lived like men that watch a painted stage. What matter for the scene, the scene once gone: It had not touched our lives.
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If suffering brings wisdom, I would wish to be less wise.
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I have nothing more to give you than my heart. Spanish saying Hearts are not to be had as a gift hearts are to be earned.
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O what fine thought we had because we thought that the worst rogues and rascals had died out.
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I have nothing but the embittered sun Banished heroic mother moon and vanished, And now that I have come to fifty years I must endure the timid sun.
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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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I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not love.
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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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The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.
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Consume my heart away, sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is, and gather me Into the artifice of eternity.
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The chief imagination of Christendom, Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself That he has made that hollow face of his More plain to the mind's eye than any face But that of Christ.
William Butler Yeats