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Boughs have their fruit and blossom At all times of the year Rivers are running over With red beer and brown beer.
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
Rivers
Fruit
Year
Boughs
Age
Blossom
Times
Paradise
Running
Brown
Years
Beer
Red
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And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.
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The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.
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Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye, In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky With all their ancient faces like rain- beaten stones, And all their helms of silver hovering.
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And there's a score of duchesses, surpassing womankind, Or who have found a painter to make them so for pay And smooth out stain and blemish with the elegance of his mind: I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.
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Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.
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for never yet Has lover lived, but longed to wive Like them that are no more alive.
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I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death.
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The problem wiv some blokes is that wen they ain't drunk, they're sober.
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He only can create the greatest imaginable beauty who has endured all imaginable pangs, for only when we have seen and foreseen what we dread shall we be rewarded by that dazzling unforeseen wing-footed wanderer.
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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 is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident?
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This great purple butterfly, In the prison of my hands, Has a learning in his eye Not a poor fool understands.
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on the instant clamorous eaves, A climbing moon upon an empty sky, And all that lamentation of the leaves, Could but compose man's image and his cry.
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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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Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun.
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Time can but make it easier to be wise / Though now it seems impossible, and so / All that you need is patience.
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The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy Of old the world on dreaming fed Gray Truth is now her painted toy.
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An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick
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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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The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.
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