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When we have blamed the wind we can blame love.

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
Blamed
Blame
Wind
Love

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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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For men were born to pray and save: Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.
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I had this thought a while ago, My darling cannot understand What I have done, or what would do In this blind bitter land. And I grew weary of the sun
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Because this age and the next age Engender in the ditch, No man can know a happy man From any passing wretch, If Folly link with Elegance No man knows which is which.
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Tis the eternal law, That first in beauty should be first in might.
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Choose your companions from the best Who draws a bucket with the rest soon topples down the hill.
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Let the minor genius go his light way and enjoy his life - the great nature cannot so live, he is never really in holiday mood, even though he often plucks flowers by the wayside and ties them into knots and garlands like little children and lays out on a sunny morning.
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Designs in connection with postage stamps and coinage may be described, I think, as the silent ambassadors on national taste.
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What shall I do for pretty girls Now my old bawd is dead?
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Nor seek, for this is also sooth, To hunger fiercely after truth, Lest all thy toiling only breeds New dreams, new dreams there is no truth Saving in thine own heart.
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Whatever flames upon the night Man's own resinous heart has fed.
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I agree about Shaw - he is haunted by the mystery he flouts. He is an atheist who trembles in the haunted corridor.
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Everything in nature is resurrection.
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Man has created death.
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I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young / And weep because I know all things now.
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The Muse is mute when public men Applaud a modern throne.
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Everything we look upon is blest.
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Speech after long silence it is right, All other lovers being estranged or dead . . . That we descant and yet again descant Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song: Bodily decrepitude is wisdom young We loved each other and were ignorant.
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No man, even though he be Shakespeare, can write perfectly when his web is woven of threads that have been spun in many lands.
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All hatred driven hence, The soul recovers radical innocence And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will
William Butler Yeats