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A drunkard is a dead man And all dead men are drunk.

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
Men
Drunkard
Drunkards
Drunk
Drinking
Dead

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If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
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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.
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While Michael Angelo's Sistine roof, His Morning and his Night disclose How sinew that has been pulled tight, Or it may be loosened in repose, Can rule by supernatural right Yet be but sinew.
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Grant me an old man's frenzy, Myself must I remake Till I am Timon and Lear Or that William Blake Who beat upon the wall Till Truth obeyed his call.
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Give to these children, new from the world, Rest far from men. Is anything better, anything better? Tell us it then.
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Civilisation is hooped together, brought Under a rule, under the semblance of peace By manifold illusion.
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The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.
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I have nothing but the embittered sun Banished heroic mother moon and vanished, And now that I have come to fifty years I must endure the timid sun.
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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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Wine enters through the mouth, Love, the eyes. I raise the glass to my mouth, I look at you, I sigh.
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The women take so little stock In what I do or say They'd sooner leave their cosseting To hear a jackass bray.
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A speckled cat and a tame hare Eat at my hearthstone And sleep there And both look up to me alone For learning and defence As I look up to Providence.
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It is love that I am seeking for, But of a beautiful, unheard-of kind That is not in the world.
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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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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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Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of.
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Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room As though dried straw, and if we turn about The bare chimney is gone black out Because the work had finished in that flare.
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I have grown to believe that there is no dangerous idea, which does not become less dangerous when written out in sincere and careful English.
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The labor of the alchemists, who were called artist in their day, is a befitting comparison for a deliberate change of style.
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But boys and girls, pale from the imagined love Of solitary beds, knew what they were, That passion could bring character enough And pressed at midnighht in some public place Live lips upon a plummet-measured face.
William Butler Yeats