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All think what other people think All know the man their neighbor knows. Lord, what would they say Did their Catullus walk that way?
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
Lord
Way
Academia
Would
Gossip
Men
Neighbor
Think
Poet
Thinking
Poetry
People
Walk
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Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.
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I would have touched it like a child But knew my finger could but have touched Cold stone and water. I grew wild, Even accusing heaven because It had set down among its laws: Nothing that we love over-much Is ponderable to our touch.
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Poetry and music I have banished, But the stupidity Of root, shoot, blossom or clay Makes no demand. I bend my body to the spade Or grope with a dirty hand.
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Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
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Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.
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I always think a great speaker convinces us not by force of reasoning, but because he is visibly enjoying the beliefs he wants us to accept.
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Though I have many words, What woman's satisfied, I am no longer faint Because at her side? O who could have foretold That the heart grows old?
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The falcon cannot hear the falconer
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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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And the merry love the fiddle, and the merry love to dance.
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It's certain there is no fine thing Since Adam's fall but needs much laboring.
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Hammer your thoughts into unity.
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I would that I were an old beggar Rolling a blind pearl eye, For he cannot see my lady Go gallivanting by.
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We are closed in, and the key is turned / On our uncertainty.
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What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident?
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Although our love is waning, let us stand by the lone border of the lake once more, together in that hour of gentleness. When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.
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Man is in love and loves what vanishes, What more is there to say?
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For the good are always the merry, / Save by an evil chance,/ And the merry love the fiddle,/ And the merry love to dance: / And when the folk there spy me,/ They will all come up to me, / With,”Here is the fiddler of Dooney!” / And dance like a wave of the sea.
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The fascination of what's difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content Out of my heart.
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How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics?
William Butler Yeats