Quote

Beloved, let your eyes half close, and your heart beat Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast, Drowning love's lonely hour in deep twilight of rest.

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
Heart
Hair
Beloved
Love
Rest
Beat
Eyes
Lovers
Hours
Beats
Half
Lonely
Drowning
Eye
Hour
Breast
Peace
Close
Twilight
Fall
Deep
Breasts

More quotes by William Butler Yeats

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Man is in love and loves what vanishes, What more is there to say?
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Supreme art is a traditional statement of certain heroic and religious truth, passed on from age to age, modified by individual genius, but never abandoned.
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A line will take us hours maybe Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
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Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.
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...How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face... When You Are Old And Gray
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The Father and His angelic hierarchy That made the magnitude and glory there Stood in the circuit of a needle's eye.
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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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It is not permitted to a man, who takes up pen or chisel, to seek originality, for passion is his only business, and he cannot but mould or sing after a new fashion because no disaster is like another.
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We can only begin to live when we conceive life as Tragedy.
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Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day.
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Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again! The beggars have changed places, but the lash goes on.
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Everything we look upon is blest.
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What shall I do for pretty girls Now my old bawd is dead?
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Through winter-time we call on spring, And through the spring on summer call, And when the abounding hedges ring Declare that winter's best of all: And after that there's nothing good Because the spring time has not come- Not know that what disturbs our blood Is but its longing for the tomb.
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Locke sank into a swoon The Garden died God took the spinning-jenny Out of his side.
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Life is a journey up a spiral staircase as we grow older we cover the ground covered we have covered before, only higher up as we look down the winding stair below us we measure our progress by the number of places where we were but no longer are. The journey is both repetitious and progressive we go both round and upward.
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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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We cannot doubt that barbaric people receive such influences more visibly and obviously, and in all likelihood more easily and fully than we do, for our life in cities, which deafens or kills the passive meditative life, and our education that enlarges the separated, self-moving mind, have made our souls less sensitive.
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I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'
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John Synge, I and Augusta Gregory, thought All that we did, all that we said or sang Must come from contact with the soil, from that Contact everything Antaeus-like grew strong.
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