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on the instant clamorous eaves, A climbing moon upon an empty sky, And all that lamentation of the leaves, Could but compose man's image and his cry.

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
Image
Clamorous
Empty
Lamentation
Moon
Compose
Upon
Climbing
Nature
Instant
Men
Leaves
Sky
Cry
Eaves

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In dreams begin responsibilitiy.
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While they danced they came over them the weariness with the world, the melancholy, the pity one for the other, which is the exultation of love.
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Nothing that we love overmuch Is ponderable to our touch.
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Yet they that know all things but know That all this life can give us is A child's laughter, a woman's kiss.
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Man is in love and loves what vanishes, What more is there to say?
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A spot whereon the founders lived and died Seemed once more dear than life ancestral trees, Or gardens rich in memory glorified Marriages, alliances, and families, And every bride's ambition satisfied.
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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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When a man grows old his joy Grows more deep day after day, His empty heart is full at length But he has need of all that strength Because of the increasing Night That opens her mystery and fright.
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An intellectual hatred is the worst.
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We can only begin to live when we conceive life as Tragedy.
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Great literature has always been written in a like spirit, and is, indeed, the Forgiveness of Sin, and when we find it becoming the Accusation of Sin, as in George Eliot, who plucks her Tito in pieces with as much assurance as if he had been clockwork, literature has begun to change into something else.
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Teaching is not filling up a pail, it is lighting a fire.
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Talent perceives differences genius, unity.
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My curse on plays That have to be set up in fifty ways, On the day's war with every knave and dolt, Theater business, management of men.
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The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away.
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All the wild-witches, those most notable ladies For all their broom-sticks and their tears, Their angry tears, are gone.
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In dreams begins responsibility.
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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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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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