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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.
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
Happy
Elegance
Next
Links
Men
Passings
Folly
Passing
Engender
Mankind
Wretch
Age
Ditch
Happiness
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You ask what I have found and far and wide I go, Nothing but Cromwell's house and Cromwell's murderous crew, The lovers and the dancers are beaten into the clay, And the tall men and the swordsmen and the horsemen where are they?
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It's certain there are trout somewhere - And maybe I shall take a trout - but I do not seem to care.
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Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day.
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It was my first meeting with a philosophy that confirmed my vague speculations and seemed at once logical and boundless.
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I knew that I had seen, had seen at last That girl my unremembering nights hold fast Or else my dreams that fly If I should rub an eye, And yet in flying fling into my meat A crazy juice that makes the pulses beat.
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But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?
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What can I but enumerate old themes?
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How can we know the dancer from the dance?
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A speckled cat and a tame hare Eat at my hearthstone And sleep there And both look up to me alone For learning and defence As I look up to Providence.
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. . . you may think I waste my breath Pretending that there can be passion That has more life in it than death
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All the stream that's roaring by Came out of a needle's eye.
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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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Cast your mind on other days that we in coming days may be still the indomitable Irishry.
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Designs in connection with postage stamps and coinage may be described, I think, as the silent ambassadors on national taste.
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Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World! You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled. Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring The bell that calls us on the sweet far thing.
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Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
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Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned.
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Words are always getting conventionalized to some secondary meaning. It is one of the works of poetry to take the truants in custody and bring them back to their right senses.
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