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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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The only enemy of innocence and beauty is time.
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There is no release In a bodkin or disease, Nor can there be a work so great As that which cleans man's dirty slate.
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Whence had they come The hand and lash that beat down frigid Rome? What sacred drama through her body heaved When world-transforming Charlemagne was conceived?
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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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But stories that live longest Are sung above the glass, And Parnell loved his country And Parnell loved his lass.
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While Michael Angelo's Sistine roof, His Morning and his Night disclose How sinew that has been pulled tight, Or it may be loosened in repose, Can rule by supernatural right Yet be but sinew.
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Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?
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The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.
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And God would bid His warfare cease, Saying all things were well And softly make a rosy peace, A peace of Heaven with Hell.
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Why should the imagination of a man Long past his prime remember things that are Emblematical of love and war?
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What do we know but that we face one another in this place?
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Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top.
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BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there.
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A mouth that has no moisture and no breath Breathless mouths may summon I hail the superhuman I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.
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The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy Of old the world on dreaming fed Gray Truth is now her painted toy.
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Not a man alive has so much luck that he can play with it.
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I am still of opinion that only two topics can be of the least interest to a serious and studious mood - sex and the dead.
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All men live in suffering I know as few can know, Whether they take the upper road Or stay content on the low.
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Land of Heart's Desire Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood, But joy is wisdom, time an endless song.
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I am haunted by numberless islands, many a Danaan shore, Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no moreSoon far from the rose and the lily and fret of the flames would we be, Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea!
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