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I see a schoolboy when I think of him, With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window.
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
Face
Schoolboy
Faces
Pressed
Think
Shop
Thinking
Nose
Shops
Noses
Window
Sweet
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Now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
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What made us dream that he could comb gray hair?
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And I will find some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,/ Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings.
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Only the dead can be forgiven But when I think of that my tongue's a stone.
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It seems to me that love, if it is fine, is essentially a discipline.
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And when you sigh from kiss to kiss I hear white Beauty sighing, too, For hours when all must fade like dew.
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What can be explained is not poetry.
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I had a chair at every hearth, When no one turned to see, With 'Look at that old fellow there, 'And who may he be?
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A speckled cat and a tame hare Eat at my hearthstone And sleep there And both look up to me alone For learning and defence As I look up to Providence.
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There's keen delight in what we have: The rattle of pebbles on the shore Under the receding wave.
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Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.
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In luck or out the toil has left its mark: That old perplexity an empty purse, Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.
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The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.
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I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams.
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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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Whence had they come The hand and lash that beat down frigid Rome? What sacred drama through her body heaved When world-transforming Charlemagne was conceived?
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I sat on cushioned otter-skin: My word was law from Ith to Emain, And shook at Invar Amargin The hearts of the world-troubling seamen, And drove tumult and war away.
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to be choked with hate May well be of all evil chances chief.
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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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Art bids us touch and taste and hear and see the world, and shrinks from what Blake calls mathematic form, from every abstract form, from all that is of the brain only.
William Butler Yeats
