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

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Hearts are not had as a gift, But hearts are earned.
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I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal. The shallowest people on the ridge of the earth.
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God guard me from those thoughts men think In the mind alone.
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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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I believe... that our memories are part of one great memory, the memory of Nature herself.
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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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I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'
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I would have touched it like a child But knew my finger could but have touched Cold stone and water. I grew wild, Even accusing heaven because It had set down among its laws: Nothing that we love over-much Is ponderable to our touch.
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Ah, let us kiss each other's eyes,/And laugh our love away.
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Come near I would, before my time to go, Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways: Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days.
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It is not permitted to a man, who takes up pen or chisel, to seek originality, for passion is his only business, and he cannot but mould or sing after a new fashion because no disaster is like another.
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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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. . . you may think I waste my breath Pretending that there can be passion That has more life in it than death
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The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.
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A drunkard is a dead man And all dead men are drunk.
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I, too, await The hour of thy great wind of love and hate. When shall the stars be blown about the sky, Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?
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While man can still his body keep Wine or love drug him to sleep, Waking he thanks the Lord that he Has body and its stupidity.
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Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.
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I went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.
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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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