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I weave the shoes of Sorrow: Soundless shall be the footfall light In all men's ears of Sorrow, Sudden and light.

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
Shall
Soundless
Light
Weave
Men
Sudden
Shoes
Ears
Sorrow
Fate
Mankind

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Words are always getting conventionalized to some secondary meaning. It is one of the works of poetry to take the truants in custody and bring them back to their right senses.
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His element is so fine Being sharpened by his death, To drink from the wine-breath While our gross palates drink from the whole wine.
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Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams
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Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.
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My father upon the Abbey stage, before him a raging crowd. This Land of Saints, and then as the applause died out, Of plaster Saints his beautiful mischievous head thrown back.
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Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.
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for never yet Has lover lived, but longed to wive Like them that are no more alive.
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I think it better that in times like these a poet's mouth be silent, for in truth we have no gift to set a statesman right.
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The house ghost is usually a harmless and well-meaning creature. It is put up with as long as possible. It brings good luck to those who live with it.
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Poetry and music I have banished, But the stupidity Of root, shoot, blossom or clay Makes no demand. I bend my body to the spade Or grope with a dirty hand.
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A tree there is that from its topmost bough Is half all glittering flame and half all green Abounding foliage moistened with the dew And half is half and yet is all the scene And half and half consume what they renew.
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Come let us mock at the good That fancied goodness might be gay, And sick of solitude Might proclaim a holiday: Wind shrieked and where are they?
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We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
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I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind.
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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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Oh, Love is the crooked thing, there is nobody wise enough to find out all that is in it, for he will be thinking about love til the stars run away and the shadows eaten the moon.
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A thought Of that late death took all my heart for speech.
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I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'
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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 went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.
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