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Come, fix upon me that accusing eye. I thirst for accusation. All that was sung. All that was said in Ireland is a lie Breed out of the contagion of the throng, Saving the rhyme rats hear before they die.
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
Saving
Accusing
Hear
Accusation
Dies
Sung
Lying
Breed
Upon
Rats
Eye
Rhyme
Come
Thirst
Throng
Ireland
Contagion
More quotes by William Butler Yeats
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?
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One man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
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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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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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Thought is a garment and the soul's a bride That cannot in that trash and tinsel hide: Hatred of God may bring the soul to God.
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All things can tempt me from this craft of verse: One time it was a woman's face, or worse-- The seeming needs of my fool-driven land Now nothing but comes readier to the hand Than this accustomed toil.
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From our birthday, until we die, Is but the winking of an eye.
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When you are old and gray and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.
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Ah, let us kiss each other's eyes,/And laugh our love away.
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My chair was nearest to the fire In every company That talked of love or politics, Ere Time transfigured me.
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Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.
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To be born woman is to know - although they do not speak of it at school - women must labor to be beautiful.
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Let the new faces play what tricks they will In the old rooms night can outbalance day, Our shadows rove the garden gravel still, The living seem more shadowy than they.
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Because the priest must have like every dog his day Or keep us all awake with baying at the moon, We and our dolls being but the world were best away.
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Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.
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While on that old grey stone I sat Under the old wind-broken tree, I knew that One is animate, Mankind inanimate phantasy.
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What if the Church and the State Are the mob that howls at the door! Wine shall run thick to the end, Bread taste sour.
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... What matter, so there is but fire In you, in me?
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What can be explained is not poetry.
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So long as all is ordered for attack, and that alone, leaders will instinctively increase the number of enemies that they may give their followers something to do.
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