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Though logic-choppers rule the town, And every man and maid and boy Has marked a distant object down, An aimless joy is a pure joy.

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
Pure
Distant
Boys
Optimism
Joy
Town
Though
Towns
Choppers
Every
Logic
Aimless
Men
Object
Maid
Rule
Maids
Objects
Marked

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By logic and reason we die hourly by imagination we live.
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I went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.
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My wretched dragon is perplexed.
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Nor seek, for this is also sooth, To hunger fiercely after truth, Lest all thy toiling only breeds New dreams, new dreams there is no truth Saving in thine own heart.
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One often hears of a horse that shivers with terror, or of a dog that howls at something a mans eyes cannot see, and men who live primitive lives where instinct does the work of reason are fully conscious,of many things we cannot perceive at all. As life becomes more orderly, more deliberate, the supernatural world sinks farther away.
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How can they know Truth flourishes where the student's lamp has shone, And there alone, that have no solitude? So the crowd come they care not what may come. They have loud music, hope every day renewed And heartier loves that lamp is from the tomb.
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No man has ever lived that had enough of children's gratitude or woman's love.
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Wine comes in at the mouth And love comes in at the eye That's all we shall know for truth Before we grow old and die.
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Come let us mock at the good That fancied goodness might be gay, And sick of solitude Might proclaim a holiday: Wind shrieked and where are they?
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The Danaan children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold, And clap their hands together, and half close their eyes, For they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies, With heavy whitening wings, and a heart fallen cold.
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All things can tempt me from this craft of verse: One time it was a woman's face, or worse-- The seeming needs of my fool-driven land Now nothing but comes readier to the hand Than this accustomed toil.
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Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.
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Shakespearean fish swam the sea, far away from land Romantic fish swam in nets coming to the hand.
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Death and life were not Till man made up the whole, Made lock, stock and barrel Out of his bitter soul
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The fascination of what's difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content Out of my heart.
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