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Laughter not time destroyed my voice And put that crack in it, And when the moon's pot-bellied I get a laughing fit.

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
Destroyed
Fit
Laughter
Moon
Laughing
Bellied
Voice
Crack
Time
Pot
Cracks

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The women that I picked spoke sweet and low And yet gave tongue. Hound voices were they all.
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When an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay Our hearts endure the scourge, the plaited thorns, the way Crowded with bitter faces, the wounds in palm and side, The vinegar-heavy sponge, the flowers by Kedron stream.
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My soul had found All happiness in its own cause or ground. Godhead on Godhead in sexual spasm begot Godhead. Some shadow fell. My soul forgot Those amorous cries that out of quiet come And must the common round of day resume.
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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 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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My chair was nearest to the fire In every company That talked of love or politics, Ere Time transfigured me.
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The Muse is mute when public men Applaud a modern throne.
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A symbol is indeed the only possible expression of some invisible essence, a transparent lamp about a spiritual flame while allegory is one of many possible representations of an embodied thing, or familiar principle, and belongs to fancy and not to imagination: the one is a revelation, the other an amusement.
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Where there is nothing, there is God.
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The chief imagination of Christendom, Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself That he has made that hollow face of his More plain to the mind's eye than any face But that of Christ.
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Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
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The mystical life is at the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.
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Nothing that we love overmuch Is ponderable to our touch.
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I know of the leafy paths that the witches take Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles of wool, And their secret smile, out of the depths of the lake.
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How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.
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What shall I do for pretty girls Now my old bawd is dead?
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For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.
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If there's no hatred in a mind Assault and battery of the wind Can never tear the linnet from the leaf
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We taste and feel and see the truth. We do not reason ourselves into it.
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