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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
Fruit
Year
Boughs
Age
Blossom
Times
Paradise
Running
Brown
Years
Beer
Red
Rivers
More quotes by William Butler Yeats
Let the new faces play what tricks they will In the old rooms night can outbalance day, Our shadows rove the garden gravel still, The living seem more shadowy than they.
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What do we know but that we face one another in this place?
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I'm looking for the face I had, before the world was made.
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Pale brows, still hands and dim hair, I had a beautiful friend And dreamed that the old despair Would end in love in the end.
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I went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.
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Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day.
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The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves The brilliant moon and all the milky sky And all that famous harmony of leaves Had blotted out man's image and his cry.
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But boys and girls, pale from the imagined love Of solitary beds, knew what they were, That passion could bring character enough And pressed at midnighht in some public place Live lips upon a plummet-measured face.
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The problem wiv some blokes is that wen they ain't drunk, they're sober.
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Both nuns and mothers worship images, But those the candles light are not as those That animate a mother's reveries, But keep a marble or a bronze repose.
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While man can still his body keep Wine or love drug him to sleep, Waking he thanks the Lord that he Has body and its stupidity.
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In the great cities we see so little of the world, we drift into our minority. In the little towns and villages there are no minorities people are not numerous enough. You must see the world there, perforce. Every man is himself a class.
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I believe... that our memories are part of one great memory, the memory of Nature herself.
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I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping...I hear it in the deep heart's core.
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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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The poor have very few hours in which to enjoy themselves they must take their pleasure raw they haven't the time to cook it.
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The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.
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For those that love the world serve it in action, Grow rich, popular, and full of influence And should they paint or write still is it action, The struggle of the fly in marmalade.
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Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun.
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A drunkard is a dead man And all dead men are drunk.
William Butler Yeats
