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O heart, we are old The living beauty is for younger men: We cannot pay its tribute of wild tears.
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
Beauty
Living
Tribute
Cannot
Excitement
Heart
Aging
Men
Younger
Wild
Tears
Pay
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Because of something told under the famished horn Of the hunter's moon, that hung between the night and the day, To dream of women whose beauty was folded in dismay, Even in an old story, is a burden not to be borne.
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Whatever flames upon the night Man's own resinous heart has fed.
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If there's no hatred in a mind Assault and battery of the wind Can never tear the linnet from the leaf
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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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Education is not about filling a pail, it's about lighting a fire.
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We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
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O heart, be at peace, because Nor knave nor dolt can break What's not for their applause, Being for a woman's sake.
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Love is created and preserved by intellectual analysis, for we love only that which is unique, and it belongs to contemplation, not to action, for we would not change that which we love.
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How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.
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One man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
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One should say before sleeping: I have lived many lives. I have been a slave and a prince. Many a beloved has sat upon my knee and I have sat upon the knees of many a beloved. Everything that has been shall be again.
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Chaunt in his ear delusions magical, That he may fight the horses of the sea. The Druids took them to their mystery, And chaunted for three days.
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A poet is a good citizen turned inside out.
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My soul had found All happiness in its own cause or ground. Godhead on Godhead in sexual spasm begot Godhead. Some shadow fell. My soul forgot Those amorous cries that out of quiet come And must the common round of day resume.
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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?
William Butler Yeats
