Quote

Come swish around my pretty punk And keep me dancing still That I may stay a sober man Although I drink my fill.

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
Stills
Drinking
Still
Although
May
Dancing
Come
Drink
Swish
Men
Stay
Sober
Pretty
Punk
Keep
Dancer
Around
Fill

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Even the wisest man grows tense With some sort of violence Before he can accomplish fate, Know his work or choose his mate. Poet and sculptor, do the work, Nor let the modish painter shirk
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Swift has sailed into his rest Savage indignation there Cannot lacerate his breast Imitate him if you dare, World-besotted traveler he Served human liberty.
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The mystical life is at the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.
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All that I have said and done, Now that I am old and ill, Turns into a question till I lie awake night after night And never get the answers right.
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I am haunted by numberless islands, many a Danaan shore, Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no moreSoon far from the rose and the lily and fret of the flames would we be, Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea!
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Education is not filling
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His element is so fine Being sharpened by his death, To drink from the wine-breath While our gross palates drink from the whole wine.
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Because this age and the next age Engender in the ditch, No man can know a happy man From any passing wretch, If Folly link with Elegance No man knows which is which.
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Cats are oppressed, dogs terrify them, landladies starve them, boys stone them, everybody speaks of them with contempt. If they were human beings we could talk of their oppressors with a studied violence, add our strength to theirs, even organize the oppressed and like good politicians sell our charity for power.
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Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.
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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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I think all happiness depends on the energy to assume the mask of some other life, on a re-birth as something not one's self.
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Because of something told under the famished horn Of the hunter's moon, that hung between the night and the day, To dream of women whose beauty was folded in dismay, Even in an old story, is a burden not to be borne.
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Only God, my dear, Could love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.
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Joy is of the will which labours, which overcomes obstacles, which knows triumph.
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I have grown to believe that there is no dangerous idea, which does not become less dangerous when written out in sincere and careful English.
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Now must we sing and sing the best we can, But first you must be told your character: Convicted cowards all, by kindred slain.
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The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart.
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All think what other people think All know the man their neighbor knows. Lord, what would they say Did their Catullus walk that way?
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