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Eyes spiritualised by death can judge, I cannot, but I am not content.

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
Death
Cannot
Content
Judge
Judging
Eyes
Eye

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The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.
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I have mummy truths to tell Whereat the living mock, Though not for sober ear, For maybe all that hear Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock.
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Choose your companions from the best Who draws a bucket with the rest soon topples down the hill.
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And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?
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Things said or done long years ago Or things I did not do or say But thought that I might say or do, Weigh me down, and not a day But something is recalled, My conscience or my vanity appalled.
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O heart, be at peace, because Nor knave nor dolt can break What's not for their applause, Being for a woman's sake.
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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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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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to be choked with hate May well be of all evil chances chief.
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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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Much did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue It speeds the parting guest.
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What if I bade you leave The cavern of the mind? There's better exercise In the sunlight and wind.
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A line will take us hours maybe Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
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Nor bird nor beast Could make me wish for anything this day, Being old, but that the old alone might die, And that would be against God's Providence.
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I weave the shoes of Sorrow: Soundless shall be the footfall light In all men's ears of Sorrow, Sudden and light.
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Some moralist or mythological poet Compares the solitary soul to a swan I am satisfied with that, Satisfied if a troubled mirror show it, Before that brief gleam of its life be gone.
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Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.
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I hear it in the deep heart's core.
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If what I say resonates with you, it's merely because we're branches of the same tree.
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