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When all is said and done, how do we know but that our own unreason may be better than another's truth? for it has been warmed on our hearths and in our souls, and is ready for the wild bees of truth to hive in it, and make their sweet honey.

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
Truth
Warmed
May
Bees
Soul
Honey
Better
Wild
Done
Souls
Make
Sweet
Unreason
Ready
Hive
Another
Hives

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We only believe in those thoughts which have been conceived not in the brain but in the whole body.
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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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Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate, I find under the boughs of love and hate, In all poor foolish things that live a day, Eternal beauty wandering on her way.
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An intellectual hate is the worst.
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How can we know the dancer from the dance?
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I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea! We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fadeand flee And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky, Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die.
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There is another world, but it is in this one.
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No man, even though he be Shakespeare, can write perfectly when his web is woven of threads that have been spun in many lands.
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Grant me an old man's frenzy, Myself must I remake Till I am Timon and Lear Or that William Blake Who beat upon the wall Till Truth obeyed his call.
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Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day. Love's pleasure drives his love away, The painter's brush consumes his dreams.
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It seems to me that love, if it is fine, is essentially a discipline.
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Let the minor genius go his light way and enjoy his life - the great nature cannot so live, he is never really in holiday mood, even though he often plucks flowers by the wayside and ties them into knots and garlands like little children and lays out on a sunny morning.
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Was it for this the wild geese spread The gray wing upon every tide For this that all that blood was shed, For this. Edward Fitzgerald died, And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone, All that delirium of the brave? Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.
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An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick
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What man does not understand, he fears and what he fears, he tends to destroy.
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If soul my look and body touch, Which is the more blest?
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Longfellow has his popularity, in the main, because he tells his story or his idea so that one needs nothing but his verses to understand it.
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Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.
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It's certain there is no fine thing Since Adam's fall but needs much laboring.
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Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.
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