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There is no release In a bodkin or disease, Nor can there be a work so great As that which cleans man's dirty slate.

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
Release
Disease
Artist
Art
Great
Work
Cleans
Men
Slate
Life
Dirty

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By logic and reason we die hourly by imagination we live.
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I have heard that hysterical women say They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow, Of poets that are always gay
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How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics?
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An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick
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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 hatred driven hence, The soul recovers radical innocence And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will
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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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What can be explained is not poetry.
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Whatever flames upon the night Man's own resinous heart has fed.
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Teaching is not filling up a pail, it is lighting a fire.
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Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate, I find under the boughs of love and hate, In all poor foolish things that live a day, Eternal beauty wandering on her way.
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Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day.
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A passion-driven exultant man sings out Sentences that he has never thought.
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I had a chair at every hearth, When no one turned to see, With 'Look at that old fellow there, 'And who may he be?
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We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create.
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I have nothing but the embittered sun Banished heroic mother moon and vanished, And now that I have come to fifty years I must endure the timid sun.
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Through winter-time we call on spring, And through the spring on summer call, And when the abounding hedges ring Declare that winter's best of all: And after that there's nothing good Because the spring time has not come- Not know that what disturbs our blood Is but its longing for the tomb.
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It is most important that we should keep in this country a certain leisured class. I am of the opinion of the ancient Jewish book which says there is no wisdom without leisure.
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I am content to live it all again And yet again, if it be life to pitch Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch.
William Butler Yeats
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to be choked with hate May well be of all evil chances chief.
William Butler Yeats