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And when you sigh from kiss to kiss I hear white Beauty sighing, too, For hours when all must fade like dew.

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
Hours
Fade
White
Sigh
Must
Fades
Like
Representation
Kiss
Kissing
Hear
Sighing
Beauty
Dew

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A living man is blind and drinks his drop. What matter if the ditches are impure? What matter if I live it all once more?
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When I think of all the books I have read, and of the wise words I have heard spoken, and of the anxiety I have given to parents and grandparents, and of the hopes that I have had, all life weighed in the scales of my own life seems to me a preparation for something that never happens.
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Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.
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only an aching heart Conceives a changeless work of art.
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Labor is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul, Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut tree, great-rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance How can we know the dancer from the dance?
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What shall I do with this absurdity- O heart, O troubled heart-this caricature, Decrepit age that has been tied to me As to a dog's tail? Never had I more Excited, passionate, fantastical Imagination, nor an ear and eye That more expected the impossible.
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When such as I cast out remorse So great a sweetness flows into the breast We must laugh and we must sing, We are blest by everything, Everything we look upon is blessed.
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I spit into the face of time that has transfigured me
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I have found nothing half so good / As my long-planned half solitude, / Where I can sit up half the night / With some friend that has the wit.
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In luck or out the toil has left its mark: That old perplexity an empty purse, Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.
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For men were born to pray and save: Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.
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Somewhere beyond the curtain Of distorting days Lives that lonely thing That shone before these eyes Targeted, trod like Spring.
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Man has created death.
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Choose your companions from the best Who draws a bucket with the rest soon topples down the hill.
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And wisdom is a butterfly And not a gloomy bird of prey.
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Farewell - farewell, For I am weary of the weight of time.
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If Michael, leader of God's host When Heaven and Hell are met, Looked down on you from Heaven's door-post He would his deeds forget.
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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?
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