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When we are high and airy hundreds say That if we hold that flight they'll leave the place, While those same hundreds mock another day Because we have made our art of common things.
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
High
Airy
Common
Mock
Art
Hundreds
Another
Flight
Place
Hold
Made
Leave
Things
Opinion
Audience
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That beautiful mild woman for whose sake There's many a one shall find out all heartache On finding that her voice is sweet and low Replied, 'To be born a woman is to know- Although they do not talk of it at school - That we must labor to be beautiful.
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Myself I must remake.
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Nor dread nor hope attend a dying animal a man awaits his end dreading and hoping all.
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The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.
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Though leaves are many, the root is one.
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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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In dreams begin responsibilitiy.
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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.
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The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves The brilliant moon and all the milky sky And all that famous harmony of leaves Had blotted out man's image and his cry.
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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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A passion-driven exultant man sings out Sentences that he has never thought.
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You ask what I have found and far and wide I go, Nothing but Cromwell's house and Cromwell's murderous crew, The lovers and the dancers are beaten into the clay, And the tall men and the swordsmen and the horsemen where are they?
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I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .
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The poor have very few hours in which to enjoy themselves they must take their pleasure raw they haven't the time to cook it.
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To be born woman is to know - although they do not speak of it at school - women must labor to be beautiful.
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For such, Being made beautiful overmuch, Consider beauty a sufficient end, Lose natural kindness and maybe The heart-revealing intimacy That chooses right, and never find a friend.
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Surely among a rich man's flowering lawns, Amid the rustle of his planted hills, Life overflows without ambitious pains And rains down life until the basin spills, And mounts more dizzy high the more it rains As though to choose whatever shape it wills.
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I gave what other women gave That stepped out of their clothes But when this soul, its body off Naked to naked goes, He it has found shall find therein What none other knows.
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I think all happiness depends on the energy to assume the mask of some other life, on a re-birth as something not one's self.
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Many ingenious lovely things are gone / That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude.
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