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My chair was nearest to the fire In every company That talked of love or politics, Ere Time transfigured me.
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
Love
Chair
Chairs
Talked
Fire
Company
Politics
Transfigured
Every
Triviality
Time
Nearest
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When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.
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Processions that lack high stilts have nothing that catches the eye. What if my great-granddad had a pair that were twenty foot high, And mine were but fifteen foot, no modern stalks upon higher, Some rogue of the world stole them to patch up a fence or a fire.
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The blessed spirits must be sought within the self which is common to all
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The women that I picked spoke sweet and low And yet gave tongue. Hound voices were they all.
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Man is in love and loves what vanishes, What more is there to say?
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Mock mockers after that That would not lift a hand maybe To help good, wise or great To bar that foul storm out, for we Traffic in mockery.
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Nothing that we love overmuch Is ponderable to our touch.
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It is not permitted to a man, who takes up pen or chisel, to seek originality, for passion is his only business, and he cannot but mould or sing after a new fashion because no disaster is like another.
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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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Hearts are not had as a gift, But hearts are earned.
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A poet is a good citizen turned inside out.
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I summon to the winding ancient stair Set all your mind upon the steep ascent
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How can we know the dancer from the dance?
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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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The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.
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For to articulate sweet sounds together Is to work harder than all these, and yet Be thought an idler by the noisy set Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen The martyrs call the world.
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only an aching heart Conceives a changeless work of art.
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Somewhere beyond the curtain Of distorting days Lives that lonely thing That shone before these eyes Targeted, trod like Spring.
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Not a man alive has so much luck that he can play with it.
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I thought no more was needed Youth to prolong Than dumb-bell and foil To keep the body young. O who could have foretold That the heart grows old?
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