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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 have observed dreams and visions very carefully, and am now certain that the imagination has some way of lighting on the truth that the reason has not, and that its commandments, delivered when the body is still and the reason silent, are the most binding we can ever know.
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What if the Church and the State Are the mob that howls at the door! Wine shall run thick to the end, Bread taste sour.
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All that I have said and done, Now that I am old and ill, Turns into a question till I lie awake night after night And never get the answers right.
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I am content to live it all again And yet again, if it be life to pitch Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch.
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I have heard that hysterical women say They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow, Of poets that are always gay
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Poet and sculptor, do the work, / Nor let the modish painter shirk
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Was it for this the wild geese spread The gray wing upon every tide For this that all that blood was shed, For this. Edward Fitzgerald died, And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone, All that delirium of the brave? Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.
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On limestone quarried near the spot By his command these words are cut: Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by!
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Earth in beauty dressed Awaits returning spring. All true love must die, Alter at the best Into some lesser thing. Prove that I lie.
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When all is said and done, how do we know but that our own unreason may be better than another's truth? for it has been warmed on our hearths and in our souls, and is ready for the wild bees of truth to hive in it, and make their sweet honey.
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Bodies of holy men and women exude Miraculous oil, odour of violet. But under heavy loads of trampled clay Lie bodies of the vampires full of blood Their shrouds are bloody and their lips are wet.
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All that we did, all that we said or sang must come from contact with the soil.
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Only that which does not teach, which does not cry out, which does not condescend, which does not explain, is irresistible.
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And God, the herdsman, goads them on behind.
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For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
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People who lean on logic and philosophy and rational exposition end by starving the best part of the mind.
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Not a man alive has so much luck that he can play with it.
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Even the wisest man grows tense With some sort of violence Before he can accomplish fate, Know his work or choose his mate. Poet and sculptor, do the work, Nor let the modish painter shirk
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I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping...I hear it in the deep heart's core.
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I summon to the winding ancient stair Set all your mind upon the steep ascent
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