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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.
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
Stills
Lovers
Still
Despair
Would
Friend
Love
Hair
Hope
Beautiful
Brows
Hands
Dreamed
Ends
Pale
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We can only begin to live when we conceive life as Tragedy.
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And learn that the best thing is To change my loves while dancing And pay but a kiss for a kiss.
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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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I think it better that in times like these a poet's mouth be silent, for in truth we have no gift to set a statesman right.
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O but we dreamed to mend Whatever mischief seemed To afflict mankind, but now That winds of winter blow Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed.
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A passion-driven exultant man sings out Sentences that he has never thought.
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I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic's heart.
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When Walt Whitman writes in seeming defiance of tradition, he needs tradition for his protection, for the butcher and the baker and the candlestick-maker grow merry over him when they meet his work by chance.
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The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.
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Once more the storm is howling, and half hid Under this cradle-hood and coverlid My child sleeps on.
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I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'
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Why should the imagination of a man Long past his prime remember things that are Emblematical of love and war?
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Homer is my example and his unchristened heart.
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I know of the leafy paths that the witches take Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles of wool, And their secret smile, out of the depths of the lake.
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Grant me an old man's frenzy, Myself must I remake Till I am Timon and Lear Or that William Blake Who beat upon the wall Till Truth obeyed his call.
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rhetoric is will doing the work of imagination.
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Too many things are occurring for even a big heart to hold.
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Civilisation is hooped together, brought Under a rule, under the semblance of peace By manifold illusion.
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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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I have mummy truths to tell Whereat the living mock, Though not for sober ear, For maybe all that hear Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock.
William Butler Yeats
