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There's keen delight in what we have: The rattle of pebbles on the shore Under the receding wave.

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
Tradition
Receding
Rattle
Pebbles
Keen
Heritage
Shore
Wave
Delight

More quotes by William Butler Yeats

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The Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.
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There is only one romance the Soul's.
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Love comes in at the eye.
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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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Why should the imagination of a man Long past his prime remember things that are Emblematical of love and war?
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Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.
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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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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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O heart, we are old The living beauty is for younger men: We cannot pay its tribute of wild tears.
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Nor seek, for this is also sooth, To hunger fiercely after truth, Lest all thy toiling only breeds New dreams, new dreams there is no truth Saving in thine own heart.
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But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?
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In luck or out the toil has left its mark: That old perplexity an empty purse, Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.
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Death and life were not Till man made up the whole, Made lock, stock and barrel Out of his bitter soul
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All the stream that's roaring by Came out of a needle's eye.
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The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.
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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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The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.
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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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Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day. Love's pleasure drives his love away, The painter's brush consumes his dreams.
William Butler Yeats
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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.
William Butler Yeats