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The poor have very few hours in which to enjoy themselves they must take their pleasure raw they haven't the time to cook it.
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
Time
Havens
Haven
Pleasure
Hours
Poor
Enjoy
Take
Cook
Must
Cooks
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For Death who takes what man would keep, Leaves what man would lose.
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Where there is nothing, there is God.
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While they danced they came over them the weariness with the world, the melancholy, the pity one for the other, which is the exultation of love.
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I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.
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Myself I must remake.
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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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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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The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy Of old the world on dreaming fed Gray Truth is now her painted toy.
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The Irishman sustains himself during brief periods of joy by the knowledge that tragedy is just around the corner.
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What shall I do for pretty girls Now my old bawd is dead?
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Man has created death.
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Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill: For there the mystical brotherhood Of sun and moon and hollow and wood And river and stream work out their will.
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People who lean on logic and philosophy and rational exposition end by starving the best part of the mind.
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If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
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Cats are oppressed, dogs terrify them, landladies starve them, boys stone them, everybody speaks of them with contempt. If they were human beings we could talk of their oppressors with a studied violence, add our strength to theirs, even organize the oppressed and like good politicians sell our charity for power.
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What do we know but that we face one another in this place?
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I Sing what was lost and dread what was won, / I walk in a battle fought over again.
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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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...How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face... When You Are Old And Gray
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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.
William Butler Yeats
