Quote

You ask what I have found and far and wide I go, Nothing but Cromwell's house and Cromwell's murderous crew, The lovers and the dancers are beaten into the clay, And the tall men and the swordsmen and the horsemen where are they?

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
Asks
Clay
House
Crew
Found
Beaten
Nothing
Dancer
Swordsman
Men
Tall
Cromwell
Oppression
Horsemen
Lovers
Murderous
Wide
Dancers

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What the world's million lips are searching for, must be substantial somewhere.
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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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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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Not a man alive has so much luck that he can play with it.
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What were all the world's alarms To mighty Paris when he found Sleep upon a golden bed That first dawn in Helen's arms?
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The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.
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Cast your mind on other days that we in coming days may be still the indomitable Irishry.
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Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.
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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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There are no strangers here Only friends you haven't yet met.
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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.
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Like a long-legged fly upon the stream / His mind moves upon silence.
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Hammer your thoughts into unity.
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I, too, await The hour of thy great wind of love and hate. When shall the stars be blown about the sky, Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?
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What man does not understand, he fears and what he fears, he tends to destroy.
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And God would bid His warfare cease, Saying all things were well And softly make a rosy peace, A peace of Heaven with Hell.
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Poetry and music I have banished, But the stupidity Of root, shoot, blossom or clay Makes no demand. I bend my body to the spade Or grope with a dirty hand.
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A living man is blind and drinks his drop. What matter if the ditches are impure? What matter if I live it all once more?
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