Quote

O sweet everlasting Voices, be still Go to the guards of the heavenly fold And bid them wander obeying your will, Flame under flame, till Time be no more.

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
Still
Voices
Time
Wander
Guards
Heavenly
Fold
Longing
Obeying
Till
Folds
Sweet
Flame
Voice
Everlasting
Stills
Flames

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There's keen delight in what we have: The rattle of pebbles on the shore Under the receding wave.
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It was my first meeting with a philosophy that confirmed my vague speculations and seemed at once logical and boundless.
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May we two stand, When we are dead, beyond the setting suns, A little from other shades apart, With mingling hair, and play upon one lute.
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Though I have many words, What woman's satisfied, I am no longer faint Because at her side? O who could have foretold That the heart grows old?
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And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.
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But bear in mind your lover's wage Is what your looking-glass can show, And that he will turn green with rage At all that is not pictured there.
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I have believed the best of every man. And find that to believe is enough to make a bad man show him at his best, or even a good man swings his lantern higher.
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O what fine thought we had because we thought that the worst rogues and rascals had died out.
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Any fool can fight a winning battle, but it needs character to fight a losing one, and that should inspire us which reminds me that I dreamed the other night that I was being hanged, but was the life and soul of the party.
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A lonely impulse of delight
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What shall I do with this absurdity- O heart, O troubled heart-this caricature, Decrepit age that has been tied to me As to a dog's tail? Never had I more Excited, passionate, fantastical Imagination, nor an ear and eye That more expected the impossible.
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Come away, O human child: To the waters and the wild with a fairy, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
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There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.
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It seems that I must bid the Muse to pack, / Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend / Until imagination, ear and eye, / Can be content with argument and deal / In abstract things or be derided by / A sort of battered kettle at the heel.
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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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Joy is of the will which labours, which overcomes obstacles, which knows triumph.
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Whatever flames upon the night Man's own resinous heart has fed.
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The only enemy of innocence and beauty is time.
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Only that which does not teach, which does not cry out, which does not condescend, which does not explain, is irresistible.
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I whispered, 'I am too young,' and then, 'I am old enough' wherefore I threw a penny to find out if I might love.
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