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How could passion run so deep Had I never thought That the crime of being born Blackens all our lot?
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
Passion
Born
Running
Thought
Never
Sin
Crime
Deep
Mankind
More quotes by William Butler Yeats
Civilisation is hooped together, brought Under a rule, under the semblance of peace By manifold illusion.
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Ah, let us kiss each other's eyes,/And laugh our love away.
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It was my first meeting with a philosophy that confirmed my vague speculations and seemed at once logical and boundless.
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Nothing but stillness can remain when hearts are full Of their own sweetness, bodies of their loveliness.
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An intellectual hate is the worst.
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If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
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Evil comes to us men of imagination wearing as its mask all the virtues.
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Where the world ends The mind is made unchanging, for it finds Miracle, ecstasy, the impossible hope, The flagstone under all, the fire of fires, The roots of the world.
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Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.
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Because I helped to wind the clock, I come to hear it strike.
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What if the Church and the State Are the mob that howls at the door! Wine shall run thick to the end, Bread taste sour.
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All things fall and are built again, And those that build them again are gay.
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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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If a powerful and benevolent spirit has shaped the destiny of this world, we can better discover that destiny from the words that have gathered up the heart's desire of the world, than from historical records, or from speculation, wherein the heart withers.
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The only enemy of innocence and beauty is time.
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Love is created and preserved by intellectual analysis, for we love only that which is unique, and it belongs to contemplation, not to action, for we would not change that which we love.
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The desire that is satisfied is not a great desire, nor has the shoulder used all its might that an unbreakable gate has never strained.
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Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood, Even where horrible green parrots call and swing. My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud.
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Give to these children, new from the world, Rest far from men. Is anything better, anything better? Tell us it then.
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The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away.
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