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Great Powers of falling wave and wind and windy fire, With your harmonious choir Encircle her I love and sing her into peace, That my old care may cease.

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
Peace
Falling
Fall
Powers
Care
Cease
May
Wave
Great
Sing
Encircle
Love
Compassion
Windy
Wind
Choir
Fire
Harmonious

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I thought of rhyme alone, For rhyme can beat a measure out of trouble And make the daylight sweet once more.
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Between extremities Man runs his course A brand, or flaming breath, Comes to destroy All those antinomies Of day and night.
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The things a man has heard and seen are threads of life, and if he pull them carefully from the confused distaff of memory, any who will can weave them into whatever garments of belief please them best. I too have woven my garment like another, but I shall try to keep warm in it, and shall be well content if it do not unbecome me.
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Hammer your thoughts into unity.
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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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A man in his own secret meditation / Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made / In art or politics.
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God guard me from those thoughts men think In the mind alone.
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O would, beloved, that you lay Under the dock-leaves in the ground, While lights were paling one by one.
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An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick, unless soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing for every tatter in its mortal dress.
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The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.
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The unpurged images of day recede The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed Night resonance recedes, night-walkers' song After great cathedral gong.
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If soul my look and body touch, Which is the more blest?
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What can be shown? What true love be? All could be known or shown If Time were but gone.
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If a powerful and benevolent spirit has shaped the destiny of this world, we can better discover that destiny from the words that have gathered up the heart's desire of the world, than from historical records, or from speculation, wherein the heart withers.
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But O, sick children of the world, Of all the many changing things In dreary dancing past us whirled, To the cracked tune that Chronos sings, Words alone are certain good.
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It seems to me that true love is a discipline.
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Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.
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Man has created death.
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Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World! You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled. Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring The bell that calls us on the sweet far thing.
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