Quote

yet it seems Life scarce can cast a fragrance on the wind, Scarce spread a glory to the morning beams, But the torn petals strew the garden plot And there's but common greenness after that.

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
Spread
Petals
Garden
Beam
Glory
Scarce
Wind
Fragrance
Morning
Torn
Greenness
Common
Plot
Strew
Seems
Cast
Transience
Life
Casts
Beams

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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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O what fine thought we had because we thought that the worst rogues and rascals had died out.
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It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is
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I thought of rhyme alone, For rhyme can beat a measure out of trouble And make the daylight sweet once more.
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When a man grows old his joy Grows more deep day after day, His empty heart is full at length But he has need of all that strength Because of the increasing Night That opens her mystery and fright.
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Evil comes to us men of imagination wearing as its mask all the virtues.
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Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.
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People are responsible for their opinions, but Providence is responsible for their morals.
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You think it horrible that lust and rage Should dance attention upon my old age They were not such a plague when I was young What else have I to spur me into song?
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The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.
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There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.
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Endure what life God gives and ask no longer span Cease to remember the delights of youth, travel-wearied aged man Delight becomes death-longing if all longing else be vain.
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My father was an angry and impatient teacher and flung the reading book at my head.
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The intellect of man is forced to choose Perfection of the life, or of the work And if it take the second must refuse A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.
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Both nuns and mothers worship images, But those the candles light are not as those That animate a mother's reveries, But keep a marble or a bronze repose.
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There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.
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I would that there was nothing in the world But my beloved that night and day had perished, And all that is and all that is to be, All that is not the meeting of our lips.
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Ecstasy is from the contemplation of things vaster than the individual and imperfectly seen perhaps, by all those that still live.
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Whence had they come The hand and lash that beat down frigid Rome? What sacred drama through her body heaved When world-transforming Charlemagne was conceived?
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