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. . . you may think I waste my breath Pretending that there can be passion That has more life in it than death

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
Death
May
Think
Idealism
Thinking
Pretending
Life
Breath
Breaths
Waste

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And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.
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The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.
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One should say before sleeping: I have lived many lives. I have been a slave and a prince. Many a beloved has sat upon my knee and I have sat upon the knees of many a beloved. Everything that has been shall be again.
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The world being illusive, one must be deluded in some way if one is to triumph in it.
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Everything that's lovely is But a brief, dreamy kind of delight.
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For the good are always the merry, / Save by an evil chance,/ And the merry love the fiddle,/ And the merry love to dance: / And when the folk there spy me,/ They will all come up to me, / With,”Here is the fiddler of Dooney!” / And dance like a wave of the sea.
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I have often had the fancy that there is some one Myth for every man, which, if we but knew it, would make us understand all he did and thought.
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Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.
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The old priest Peter Gilligan Was weary night and day For half his flock were in their beds, Or under green sods lay.
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I say that Roger Casement Did what he had to do, He died upon the gallows But that is nothing new.
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I can forgive even that wrong of wrongs, Those undreamt accidents that have made me Seeing that Fame has perished this long while, Being but a part of ancient ceremony Notorious, till all my priceless things Are but a post the passing dogs defile.
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But boys and girls, pale from the imagined love Of solitary beds, knew what they were, That passion could bring character enough And pressed at midnighht in some public place Live lips upon a plummet-measured face.
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When I play on my fiddle in Dooney Folk dance like a wave on the sea.
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Though leaves are many, the root is one Through all the lying days of my youth I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun Now I may wither into the truth.
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When I think of all the books I have read, and of the wise words I have heard spoken, and of the anxiety I have given to parents and grandparents, and of the hopes that I have had, all life weighed in the scales of my own life seems to me a preparation for something that never happens.
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Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room As though dried straw, and if we turn about The bare chimney is gone black out Because the work had finished in that flare.
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Before me floats an image, man or shade, / Shade more than man, more image than a shade.
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Come let us mock at the great That had such burdens on the mind And toiled so hard and late To leave some monument behind, Nor thought of the leveling wind.
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That toil of growing up The ignominy of boyhood the distress Of boyhood changing into man The unfinished man and his pain.
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And that enquiring man John Synge comes next, That dying chose the living world for text And never could have rested in the tomb But that, long travelling, he had come Towards nightfall upon certain set apart In a most desolate stony place.
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