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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.

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
Moon
Vanished
Mother
Timid
Reality
Realism
Come
Heroic
Nothing
Aging
Must
Fifty
Embittered
Years
Endure
Banished
Sun
Disillusionment

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I--love's skein upon the ground, My body in the tomb-- Shall leap into the light lost In my mother's womb.
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All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the plowman, splashing the wintry mold, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.
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Poet and sculptor, do the work, / Nor let the modish painter shirk
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And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.
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Test every work of intellect or faith and everything that your own hands have wrought.
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Come let us mock at the great That had such burdens on the mind And toiled so hard and late To leave some monument behind, Nor thought of the leveling wind.
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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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I had this thought a while ago, My darling cannot understand What I have done, or what would do In this blind bitter land. And I grew weary of the sun
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Boughs have their fruit and blossom At all times of the year Rivers are running over With red beer and brown beer.
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No art can conquer the people alone-the people are conquered by an ideal of life upheld by authority.
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Wine enters through the mouth, Love, the eyes. I raise the glass to my mouth, I look at you, I sigh.
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The women take so little stock In what I do or say They'd sooner leave their cosseting To hear a jackass bray.
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I spit into the face of time that has transfigured me
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An intellectual hatred is the worst.
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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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Florence Farr once said to me, If we could say to ourselves, with sincerity, 'this passing moment is as good as any I shall ever know,' we could die upon the instant and be united with God.
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It's certain there is no fine thing Since Adam's fall but needs much laboring.
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Hearts are not had as a gift, But hearts are earned.
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The Irishman sustains himself during brief periods of joy by the knowledge that tragedy is just around the corner.
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Oh, Love is the crooked thing, there is nobody wise enough to find out all that is in it, for he will be thinking about love til the stars run away and the shadows eaten the moon.
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