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He Who is wrapped in purple robes, With planets in His care, Had pity on the least of things Asleep upon a chair.

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
Chairs
Pity
God
Planets
Robes
Least
Wrapped
Upon
Purple
Care
Asleep
Things
Chair

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I call on those that call me son, Grandson, or great-grandson, On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts, To judge what I have done. Have I, that put it into words, Spoilt what old loins have sent?
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Every conquering temptation represents a new fund of moral energy. Every trial endured and weathered in the right spirit makes a soul nobler and stronger than it was before.
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Not a man alive has so much luck that he can play with it.
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I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal. The shallowest people on the ridge of the earth.
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Homer is my example and his unchristened heart.
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I cast my heart into my rhymes, That you, in the dim coming times, May know how my heart went with them After the red-rose-bordered hem.
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There are a few of the open-air spirits the more domestic of their tribe gather within-doors, plentiful as swallows under southern eaves.
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My soul had found All happiness in its own cause or ground. Godhead on Godhead in sexual spasm begot Godhead. Some shadow fell. My soul forgot Those amorous cries that out of quiet come And must the common round of day resume.
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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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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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There is only one romance the Soul's.
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An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick
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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 balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death.
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What if I bade you leave The cavern of the mind? There's better exercise In the sunlight and wind.
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All men live in suffering I know as few can know, Whether they take the upper road Or stay content on the low.
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Teaching is not filling up a pail, it is lighting a fire.
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I long for truth, and yet I cannot stay from that My better self disowns, For a man's attention Brings such satisfaction To the craving in my bones.
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We taste and feel and see the truth. We do not reason ourselves into it.
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