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A mouth that has no moisture and no breath Breathless mouths may summon I hail the superhuman I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.

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
Breaths
Mouth
Moisture
Mouths
Summon
Greatness
Breathless
Call
Superhuman
Death
Hail
May
Humankind
Life
Breath

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Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?
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There is another world, but it is in this one.
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The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.
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I sat, a solitary man, In a crowded London shop, An open book and empty cup On the marble table-top. While on the shop and street I gazed My body of a sudden blazed And twenty minutes more or less It seemed, so great my happiness, That I was blessed and could bless.
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Being young you have not known The fool's triumph, nor yet Love lost as soon as won, Nor the best labourer dead And all the sheaves to bind.
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I spit into the face of time that has transfigured me
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Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.
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Is it not certain that the Creator yawns in earthquake and thunder and other popular displays, but toils in rounding the delicate spiral of a shell? -Yeats, The Trembling of the Veil
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Acquaintance companion One dear brilliant woman The best-endowed, the elect, All by their youth undone, All, all, by that inhuman Bitter glory wrecked.
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The problem wiv some blokes is that wen they ain't drunk, they're sober.
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I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams.
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I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'
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I bear a burden that might well try Men that do all by rule, And what can I That am a wandering-witted fool But pray to God that He ease My great responsibilities?
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All art is in the last analysis an endeavor to condense as out of the flying vapor of the world an image of human perfection, and for its own and not for the art's sake.
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One man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
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I'm looking for the face I had, before the world was made.
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Life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into a common light of common hours, Until old age brings the red flare again.
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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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Man can embody truth but he cannot know it.
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Pale brows, still hands and dim hair, I had a beautiful friend And dreamed that the old despair Would end in love in the end.
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