Quote

I thought no more was needed Youth to prolong Than dumb-bell and foil To keep the body young. O who could have foretold That the heart grows old?

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
Body
Dumb
Heart
Sadness
Foretold
Youth
Foil
Needed
Prolong
Grows
Foils
Keep
Bell
Thought
Bells
Young
Aging

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BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there.
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The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.
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Man can embody truth but he cannot know it.
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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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Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.
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Mock mockers after that That would not lift a hand maybe To help good, wise or great To bar that foul storm out, for we Traffic in mockery.
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Swift has sailed into his rest Savage indignation there Cannot lacerate his breast Imitate him if you dare, World-besotted traveler he Served human liberty.
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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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I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'
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Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood, Even where horrible green parrots call and swing. My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud.
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Come let us mock at the good That fancied goodness might be gay, And sick of solitude Might proclaim a holiday: Wind shrieked and where are they?
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I have nothing but the embittered sun Banished heroic mother moon and vanished, And now that I have come to fifty years I must endure the timid sun.
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Like a long-legged fly upon the stream / His mind moves upon silence.
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Death and life were not Till man made up the whole, Made lock, stock and barrel Out of his bitter soul
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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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When we are high and airy hundreds say That if we hold that flight they'll leave the place, While those same hundreds mock another day Because we have made our art of common things.
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Everything that's lovely is But a brief, dreamy kind of delight.
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For what but eye and ear silence the mind With the minute particulars of mankind?
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