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I long for truth, and yet I cannot stay from that My better self disowns, For a man's attention Brings such satisfaction To the craving in my bones.

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
Long
Satisfaction
Men
Brings
Stay
Attention
Cannot
Truth
Better
Craving
Self
Bones

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Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.
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Things fall apart the center cannot hold.
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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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All the stream that's roaring by Came out of a needle's eye.
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Not a man alive has so much luck that he can play with it.
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Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic heart.
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The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.
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Now must we sing and sing the best we can, But first you must be told your character: Convicted cowards all, by kindred slain.
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THOUGH you are in your shining days, Voices among the crowd And new friends busy with your praise, Be not unkind or proud, But think about old friends the most: Time's bitter flood will rise, Your beauty perish and be lost For all eyes but these eyes.
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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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And if joy were not on the earth, There were an end of change and birth, And Earth and Heaven and Hell would die, And in some gloomy barrow lie Folded like a frozen fly.
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I summon to the winding ancient stair Set all your mind upon the steep ascent
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What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident?
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In life courtesy and self-possession, and in the arts style, are the sensible impressions of the free mind, for both arise out of a deliberate shaping of all things and from never being swept away, whatever the emotion into confusion or dullness.
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A passion-driven exultant man sings out Sentences that he has never thought.
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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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You know what the Englishman's idea of compromise is? He says, Some people say there is a God. Some people say there is no God. The truth probably lies somewhere between these two statements.
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That toil of growing up The ignominy of boyhood the distress Of boyhood changing into man The unfinished man and his pain.
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And when you sigh from kiss to kiss I hear white Beauty sighing, too, For hours when all must fade like dew.
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If what I say resonates with you, it's merely because we're branches of the same tree.
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