Quote

When an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay Our hearts endure the scourge, the plaited thorns, the way Crowded with bitter faces, the wounds in palm and side, The vinegar-heavy sponge, the flowers by Kedron stream.

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
Christ
Heavy
Streams
Breathes
Heart
Hearts
Immortal
Palm
Way
Flower
Mortals
Thorns
Side
Wounds
Palms
Sides
Flowers
Crowded
Sponge
Passion
Bitter
Clay
Sponges
Faces
Breathe
Stream
Vinegar
Jesus
Endure
Mortal
Scourge

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Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn, Come clear of the nets of wrong and right Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight, Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.
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There is no release In a bodkin or disease, Nor can there be a work so great As that which cleans man's dirty slate.
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A passion-driven exultant man sings out Sentences that he has never thought.
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I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams.
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Where there is nothing, there is God.
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Overcome the Empyrean hurl Heaven and Earth out of their places, That in the same calamity Brother and brother, friend and friend, Family and family, City and city may contend.
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Tis the eternal law, That first in beauty should be first in might.
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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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And there's a score of duchesses, surpassing womankind, Or who have found a painter to make them so for pay And smooth out stain and blemish with the elegance of his mind: I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.
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We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.
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The blessed spirits must be sought within the self which is common to all
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What do we know but that we face one another in this place?
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And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?
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Because the priest must have like every dog his day Or keep us all awake with baying at the moon, We and our dolls being but the world were best away.
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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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The things a man has heard and seen are threads of life, and if he pull them carefully from the confused distaff of memory, any who will can weave them into whatever garments of belief please them best. I too have woven my garment like another, but I shall try to keep warm in it, and shall be well content if it do not unbecome me.
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The Irishman sustains himself during brief periods of joy by the knowledge that tragedy is just around the corner.
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May we two stand, When we are dead, beyond the setting suns, A little from other shades apart, With mingling hair, and play upon one lute.
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When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.
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There are no strangers here Only friends you haven't yet met.
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