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Where the world ends The mind is made unchanging, for it finds Miracle, ecstasy, the impossible hope, The flagstone under all, the fire of fires, The roots of the world.

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
Made
Ecstasy
Mind
Finds
World
Miracle
Roots
Fire
Impossible
Hope
Unchanging
Ends
Fires

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The true faith discovered was When painted panel, statuary, Glass-mosaic, window-glass, Amended what was told awry By some peasant gospeler.
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Man's life is thought, And he, despite his terror, cannot cease Ravening through century after century, Ravening, raging, and uprooting that he may come Into the desolation of reality.
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Man is in love and loves what vanishes, What more is there to say?
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Joy is of the will which labours, which overcomes obstacles, which knows triumph.
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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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I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic's heart.
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Come near I would, before my time to go, Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways: Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days.
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Things said or done long years ago Or things I did not do or say But thought that I might say or do, Weigh me down, and not a day But something is recalled, My conscience or my vanity appalled.
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Our own acts are isolated and one act does not buy absolution for another.
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What portion in the world can the artist have, Who has awakened from the common dream, But dissipation and despair?
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Any fool can fight a winning battle, but it needs character to fight a losing one, and that should inspire us which reminds me that I dreamed the other night that I was being hanged, but was the life and soul of the party.
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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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And wisdom is a butterfly And not a gloomy bird of prey.
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Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds.
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I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember
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I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful. One almost expects the people to sing instead of speaking. It is all like an opera.
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My wretched dragon is perplexed.
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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 of a healthy long lived race, and our minds improve with age.
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I summon to the winding ancient stair Set all your mind upon the steep ascent
William Butler Yeats