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My father was an angry and impatient teacher and flung the reading book at my head.
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
Book
Dyslexic
Flung
Impatient
Angry
Teacher
Head
Reading
Father
Dyslexia
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In mockery I have set A powerful emblem up, And sing it rhyme upon rhyme In mockery of a time Half dead at the top.
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There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.
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I cast my heart into my rhymes, That you, in the dim coming times, May know how my heart went with them After the red-rose-bordered hem.
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Why should we honour those that die upon the field of battle? A man may show as reckless a courage in entering into the abyss of himself.
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The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.
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I have believed the best of every man. And find that to believe is enough to make a bad man show him at his best, or even a good man swings his lantern higher.
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A lonely impulse of delight
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What the world's million lips are searching for, must be substantial somewhere.
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Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?
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Joy is of the will which labours, which overcomes obstacles, which knows triumph.
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I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young / And weep because I know all things now.
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Because this age and the next age Engender in the ditch, No man can know a happy man From any passing wretch, If Folly link with Elegance No man knows which is which.
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Love is created and preserved by intellectual analysis, for we love only that which is unique, and it belongs to contemplation, not to action, for we would not change that which we love.
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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.
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Evil comes to us men of imagination wearing as its mask all the virtues.
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What can be shown? What true love be? All could be known or shown If Time were but gone.
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Gaze no more in the bitter glass The demons, with their subtle guile, Lift up before us when they pass, Or only gaze a little while.
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We cannot doubt that barbaric people receive such influences more visibly and obviously, and in all likelihood more easily and fully than we do, for our life in cities, which deafens or kills the passive meditative life, and our education that enlarges the separated, self-moving mind, have made our souls less sensitive.
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Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic heart.
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Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.
William Butler Yeats
