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My father upon the Abbey stage, before him a raging crowd. This Land of Saints, and then as the applause died out, Of plaster Saints his beautiful mischievous head thrown back.
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
Stage
Applause
Land
Saints
Head
Crowd
Upon
Thrown
Plaster
Father
Crowds
Plasters
Beautiful
Rage
Abbey
Back
Saint
Raging
Died
Mischievous
More quotes by William Butler Yeats
And learn that the best thing is To change my loves while dancing And pay but a kiss for a kiss.
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Civilisation is hooped together, brought Under a rule, under the semblance of peace By manifold illusion.
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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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Things fall apart the center cannot hold.
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For men were born to pray and save: Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.
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The Irishman sustains himself during brief periods of joy by the knowledge that tragedy is just around the corner.
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I'm looking for the face I had, before the world was made.
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Our own acts are isolated and one act does not buy absolution for another.
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What were all the world's alarms To mighty Paris when he found Sleep upon a golden bed That first dawn in Helen's arms?
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Everything in nature is resurrection.
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A drunkard is a dead man And all dead men are drunk.
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I thought it out this very day, Noon upon the clock, A man may put pretence away Who leans upon a stick, May sing, and sing until he drop, Whether to maid or hag.
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And I will find some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,/ Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings.
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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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somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
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Where the wave of moonlight glosses The dim gray sands with light, Far off by furthest Rosses We foot it all the night, Weaving olden dances, Mingling hands and mingling glances Till the moon has taken flight To and fro we leap And chase the frothy bubbles, While the world is full of troubles And is anxious in its sleep. . . .
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I know, although when looks meet I tremble to the bone, The more I leave the door unlatched The sooner love is gone.
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I am haunted by numberless islands, many a Danaan shore, Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no moreSoon far from the rose and the lily and fret of the flames would we be, Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea!
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I sat, a solitary man, In a crowded London shop, An open book and empty cup On the marble table-top. While on the shop and street I gazed My body of a sudden blazed And twenty minutes more or less It seemed, so great my happiness, That I was blessed and could bless.
William Butler Yeats
All art that is not mere storytelling, or mere portraiture, is symbolic, and has the purpose of those symbolic talismans which medieval magicians made with complex colours and forms, and bade their patients ponder over daily, and guard with holy secrecy for it entangles, in complex colours and forms, a part of the Divine Essence.
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