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for never yet Has lover lived, but longed to wive Like them that are no more alive.

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
Lived
Alive
Never
Like
Longed
Lover
Lovers

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O heart the winds have shaken, the unappeasable host Is comelier than candles at Mother Mary's feet.
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There is another world, but it is in this one.
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Nor dread nor hope attend a dying animal a man awaits his end dreading and hoping all.
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I have heard that hysterical women say They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow, Of poets that are always gay
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Come swish around my pretty punk And keep me dancing still That I may stay a sober man Although I drink my fill.
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A living man is blind and drinks his drop. What matter if the ditches are impure? What matter if I live it all once more?
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There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.
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Though leaves are many, the root is one.
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A pity beyond all telling is hid in the heart of love.
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The unpurged images of day recede The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed Night resonance recedes, night-walkers' song After great cathedral gong.
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No man has ever lived that had enough of children's gratitude or woman's love.
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I thought no more was needed Youth to prolong Than dumb-bell and foil To keep the body young. O who could have foretold That the heart grows old?
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Although our love is waning, let us stand by the lone border of the lake once more, together in that hour of gentleness. When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.
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What shall I do with this absurdity- O heart, O troubled heart-this caricature, Decrepit age that has been tied to me As to a dog's tail? Never had I more Excited, passionate, fantastical Imagination, nor an ear and eye That more expected the impossible.
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The labor of the alchemists, who were called artist in their day, is a befitting comparison for a deliberate change of style.
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I have nothing but the embittered sun Banished heroic mother moon and vanished, And now that I have come to fifty years I must endure the timid sun.
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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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There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.
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I sat, a solitary man, In a crowded London shop, An open book and empty cup On the marble table-top. While on the shop and street I gazed My body of a sudden blazed And twenty minutes more or less It seemed, so great my happiness, That I was blessed and could bless.
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Maybe the bride-bed brings despair, For each an imagined image brings And finds a real image there...
William Butler Yeats