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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
Proud
Ways
Days
Come
Near
Way
Red
Would
Rose
Time
Sing
Ancient

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We have fallen in the dreams the ever-living Breathe on the tarnished mirror of the world, And then smooth out with ivory hands and sigh.
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Time can but make her beauty over again.
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Myself I must remake.
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The chief imagination of Christendom, Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself That he has made that hollow face of his More plain to the mind's eye than any face But that of Christ.
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Eyes spiritualised by death can judge, I cannot, but I am not content.
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Civilisation is hooped together, brought Under a rule, under the semblance of peace By manifold illusion.
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What made us dream that he could comb gray hair?
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Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun.
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When I play on my fiddle in Dooney Folk dance like a wave on the sea.
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The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.
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I knew that I had seen, had seen at last That girl my unremembering nights hold fast Or else my dreams that fly If I should rub an eye, And yet in flying fling into my meat A crazy juice that makes the pulses beat.
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I summon to the winding ancient stair Set all your mind upon the steep ascent
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In luck or out the toil has left its mark: That old perplexity an empty purse, Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.
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Yet they that know all things but know That all this life can give us is A child's laughter, a woman's kiss.
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Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a while.
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If soul my look and body touch, Which is the more blest?
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An intellectual hatred is the worst, So let her think opinions are accursed. Have I not seen the loveliest woman born Out of the mouth of Plenty's horn, Because of her opinionated mind Barter that horn and every good By quiet natures understood For an old bellows full of angry wind?
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I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.
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We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
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There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.
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