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The Bishop has a skin, God knows, Wrinkled like the foot of a goose, (All find safety in the tomb.) Nor can he hide in holy black The heron's hunch upon his back, But a birch-tree stood my Jack.
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
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Safety
Bishops
Hunch
Like
Holy
Jack
Wrinkled
Tree
Hypocrisy
Hunches
Feet
Stood
Goose
Humanity
Foot
Bishop
Upon
Hide
Tomb
Heron
Black
Skin
Geese
Herons
Back
Skins
Tombs
Birch
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Him who trembles before the flame and the flood, And the winds that blow through the starry ways, Let the starry winds and the flame and the flood Cover over and hide, for he has no part With the lonely, majestical multitude.
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I know of the leafy paths that the witches take Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles of wool, And their secret smile, out of the depths of the lake.
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It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is
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Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enameling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
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Swift has sailed into his rest Savage indignation there Cannot lacerate his breast Imitate him if you dare, World-besotted traveler he Served human liberty.
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If there's no hatred in a mind Assault and battery of the wind Can never tear the linnet from the leaf
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Words alone are certain good.
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What made us dream that he could comb gray hair?
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The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.
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Much did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue It speeds the parting guest.
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I can exchange opinion with any neighbouring mind, I have as healthy flesh and blood as any rhymer's had, But O! my Heart could bear no more when the upland caught the wind I ran, I ran, from my love's side because my Heart went mad.
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And pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon the golden apples of the sun.
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A line will take us hours maybe Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
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Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.
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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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The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.
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Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic heart.
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