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For those that love the world serve it in action, Grow rich, popular, and full of influence And should they paint or write still is it action, The struggle of the fly in marmalade.

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
Popular
Rich
Serve
Write
Paint
Action
Grow
Stills
Influence
Still
Struggle
Writing
Full
Love
Marmalade
World
Grows

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The visible world is no longer a reality and the unseen world no longer a dream.
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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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We have fallen in the dreams the ever-living Breathe on the tarnished mirror of the world, And then smooth out with ivory hands and sigh.
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Like a long-legged fly upon the stream / His mind moves upon silence.
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Everything that's lovely is But a brief, dreamy kind of delight.
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If there's no hatred in a mind Assault and battery of the wind Can never tear the linnet from the leaf
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Let the new faces play what tricks they will In the old rooms night can outbalance day, Our shadows rove the garden gravel still, The living seem more shadowy than they.
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Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.
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That beautiful mild woman for whose sake There's many a one shall find out all heartache On finding that her voice is sweet and low Replied, 'To be born a woman is to know- Although they do not talk of it at school - That we must labor to be beautiful.
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I made my song a coat Covered with embroideries Out of old mythologies From heel to throat But the fools caught it, Wore it in the world's eyes As though they'd wrought it. Song, let them take it, For there's more enterprise In walking naked.
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It's certain that fine women eat A crazy salad with their meat.
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Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a while.
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But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.
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I whispered, 'I am too young,' and then, 'I am old enough' wherefore I threw a penny to find out if I might love.
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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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Homer is my example and his unchristened heart.
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I think all happiness depends on the energy to assume the mask of some other life, on a re-birth as something not one's self.
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Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of.
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Come, fix upon me that accusing eye. I thirst for accusation. All that was sung. All that was said in Ireland is a lie Breed out of the contagion of the throng, Saving the rhyme rats hear before they die.
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Come let us mock at the great That had such burdens on the mind And toiled so hard and late To leave some monument behind, Nor thought of the leveling wind.
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