Quote

There where the course is, Delight makes all of the one mind, The riders upon the galloping horses, The crowd that closes in behind.

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
Behind
Horses
Courses
Racing
Course
Crowd
Upon
Excitement
Makes
Crowds
Mind
Delight
Galloping
Horse
Closes
Behinds
Riders

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Because of something told under the famished horn Of the hunter's moon, that hung between the night and the day, To dream of women whose beauty was folded in dismay, Even in an old story, is a burden not to be borne.
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Tis the eternal law, That first in beauty should be first in might.
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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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I say that Roger Casement Did what he had to do, He died upon the gallows But that is nothing new.
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By logic and reason we die hourly by imagination we live.
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Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?
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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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When you are old and gray and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.
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The mystical life is the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write. . . . I have always considered myself a voice of what I believe to be a greater renaissance - the revolt of the soul against the intellect.
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The true faith discovered was When painted panel, statuary, Glass-mosaic, window-glass, Amended what was told awry By some peasant gospeler.
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Lionel Johnson comes the first to mind, That loved his learning better than mankind, Though courteous to the worst much falling he Brooded upon sanctity.
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All hatred driven hence, The soul recovers radical innocence And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will
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What portion in the world can the artist have, Who has awakened from the common dream, But dissipation and despair?
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I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind.
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For such, Being made beautiful overmuch, Consider beauty a sufficient end, Lose natural kindness and maybe The heart-revealing intimacy That chooses right, and never find a friend.
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I always think a great speaker convinces us not by force of reasoning, but because he is visibly enjoying the beliefs he wants us to accept.
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All the wild-witches, those most notable ladies For all their broom-sticks and their tears, Their angry tears, are gone.
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I--though heart might find relief Did I become a Christian man and choose for my belief What seems most welcome in the tomb--play a predestined part. Homer is my example and his unchristened heart.
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The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.
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For Death who takes what man would keep, Leaves what man would lose.
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