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Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill: For there the mystical brotherhood Of sun and moon and hollow and wood And river and stream work out their will.
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
Sun
Stream
Moon
Wood
Upon
Brotherhood
Nature
Streams
Gaia
Come
River
Heaped
Heart
Hills
Hollow
Work
Woods
Hill
Rivers
Mystical
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We are fastened to a dying animal.
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For such, Being made beautiful overmuch, Consider beauty a sufficient end, Lose natural kindness and maybe The heart-revealing intimacy That chooses right, and never find a friend.
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Our words must seem to be inevitable.
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I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams.
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He only can create the greatest imaginable beauty who has endured all imaginable pangs, for only when we have seen and foreseen what we dread shall we be rewarded by that dazzling unforeseen wing-footed wanderer.
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How could passion run so deep Had I never thought That the crime of being born Blackens all our lot?
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An age is the reversal of an age: When strangers murdered Emmet, Fitzgerald, Tone, We lived like men that watch a painted stage. What matter for the scene, the scene once gone: It had not touched our lives.
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The true faith discovered was When painted panel, statuary, Glass-mosaic, window-glass, Amended what was told awry By some peasant gospeler.
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But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?
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Time can but make her beauty over again.
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Bodies of holy men and women exude Miraculous oil, odour of violet. But under heavy loads of trampled clay Lie bodies of the vampires full of blood Their shrouds are bloody and their lips are wet.
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Bid imagination run / Much on the Great Questioner / What He can question, what if questioned I / Can with a fitting confidence reply.
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Maybe the bride-bed brings despair, For each an imagined image brings And finds a real image there...
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... What matter, so there is but fire In you, in me?
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Why should I seek for love or study it? It is of God and passes human wit I study hatred with great diligence, For that's a passion in my own control, A sort of besom that can clear the soul Of everything that is not mind or sense.
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People who lean on logic and philosophy and rational exposition end by starving the best part of the mind.
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The women take so little stock In what I do or say They'd sooner leave their cosseting To hear a jackass bray.
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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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A strange thing surely that my Heart, when love had come unsought Upon the Norman upland or in that poplar shade, Should find no burden but itself and yet should be worn out. It could not bear that burden and therefore it went mad.
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The soul of man is of the imperishable substance of the stars!
William Butler Yeats