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Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood, Even where horrible green parrots call and swing. My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud.
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
Green
Margin
Works
Mud
Margins
Call
Swing
Black
Swings
Sultry
Even
Wood
Hooves
Woods
Stamped
Horrible
Parrots
More quotes by William Butler Yeats
We only believe in those thoughts which have been conceived not in the brain but in the whole body.
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You know what the Englishman's idea of compromise is? He says, Some people say there is a God. Some people say there is no God. The truth probably lies somewhere between these two statements.
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Love is based on inequality as friendship is on equality.
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How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.
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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 have observed dreams and visions very carefully, and am now certain that the imagination has some way of lighting on the truth that the reason has not, and that its commandments, delivered when the body is still and the reason silent, are the most binding we can ever know.
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Come swish around my pretty punk And keep me dancing still That I may stay a sober man Although I drink my fill.
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Any fool can fight a winning battle, but it needs character to fight a losing one, and that should inspire us which reminds me that I dreamed the other night that I was being hanged, but was the life and soul of the party.
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Everything that's lovely is But a brief, dreamy kind of delight.
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And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.
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Endure what life God gives and ask no longer span Cease to remember the delights of youth, travel-wearied aged man Delight becomes death-longing if all longing else be vain.
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I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .
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God spreads the heavens above us like great wings, And gives a little round of deeds and days.
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We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create.
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THOUGH you are in your shining days, Voices among the crowd And new friends busy with your praise, Be not unkind or proud, But think about old friends the most: Time's bitter flood will rise, Your beauty perish and be lost For all eyes but these eyes.
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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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O what fine thought we had because we thought that the worst rogues and rascals had died out.
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Joy is of the will which labours, which overcomes obstacles, which knows triumph.
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I would have touched it like a child But knew my finger could but have touched Cold stone and water. I grew wild, Even accusing heaven because It had set down among its laws: Nothing that we love over-much Is ponderable to our touch.
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There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.
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