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

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Words alone are certain good.
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Women are hard and proud and stubborn-hearted, Their heads being turned with praise and flattery And that is why their lovers are afraid To tell them a plain story.
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Once more the storm is howling, and half hid Under this cradle-hood and coverlid My child sleeps on.
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I thought it out this very day, Noon upon the clock, A man may put pretence away Who leans upon a stick, May sing, and sing until he drop, Whether to maid or hag.
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Man has created death.
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Nothing but stillness can remain when hearts are full Of their own sweetness, bodies of their loveliness.
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Gaze no more in the bitter glass The demons, with their subtle guile, Lift up before us when they pass, Or only gaze a little while.
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A pity beyond all telling is hid in the heart of love.
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I--love's skein upon the ground, My body in the tomb-- Shall leap into the light lost In my mother's womb.
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The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.
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Between extremities Man runs his course A brand, or flaming breath, Comes to destroy All those antinomies Of day and night.
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An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick
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No man has ever lived that had enough of children's gratitude or woman's love.
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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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For those that love the world serve it in action, Grow rich, popular, and full of influence And should they paint or write still is it action, The struggle of the fly in marmalade.
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I am still of opinion that only two topics can be of the least interest to a serious and studious mood - sex and the dead.
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I see a schoolboy when I think of him, With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window.
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I believe... that our memories are part of one great memory, the memory of Nature herself.
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Give to these children, new from the world, Rest far from men. Is anything better, anything better? Tell us it then.
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