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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.
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
Ancient
Proud
Ways
Days
Come
Near
Way
Red
Would
Rose
Time
Sing
More quotes by William Butler Yeats
Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of.
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Joy is of the will which labours, which overcomes obstacles, which knows triumph.
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I believe... that our memories are part of one great memory, the memory of Nature herself.
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Even when the poet seems most himself . . . he is never the bundle of accident and incoherence that sits down to breakfast he has been reborn as an idea, something intended, complete.
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Everything exists, everything is true and the earth is just a bit of dust beneath our feet.
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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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I broke my heart in two So hard I struck. What matter? for I know That out of rock, Out of a desolate source, Love leaps upon its course.
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We only believe in those thoughts which have been conceived not in the brain but in the whole body.
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On the grey rock of Cashel I suddenly saw A Sphinx with woman breast and lion paw, A Buddha, hand at rest, Hand lifted up that blest And right between these two a girl at play That, it may be, had danced her life away.
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And when you sigh from kiss to kiss I hear white Beauty sighing, too, For hours when all must fade like dew.
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The blessed spirits must be sought within the self which is common to all
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Somewhere beyond the curtain Of distorting days Lives that lonely thing That shone before these eyes Targeted, trod like Spring.
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Before me floats an image, man or shade, / Shade more than man, more image than a shade.
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What can be shown? What true love be? All could be known or shown If Time were but gone.
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If Michael, leader of God's host When Heaven and Hell are met, Looked down on you from Heaven's door-post He would his deeds forget.
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Shakespeare cared little for the State, the source of all our judgments, apart from its shows and splendours, its turmoils and battles, its flamings out of the uncivilized heart.
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Time can but make her beauty over again.
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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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How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?
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All that we did, all that we said or sang must come from contact with the soil.
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