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I, too, await The hour of thy great wind of love and hate. When shall the stars be blown about the sky, Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?

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
Hate
Sparks
Great
Sky
Love
Hour
Like
Wind
Shall
Stars
Dies
Await
Hours
Blown

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A strange thing surely that my Heart, when love had come unsought Upon the Norman upland or in that poplar shade, Should find no burden but itself and yet should be worn out. It could not bear that burden and therefore it went mad.
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Farewell - farewell, For I am weary of the weight of time.
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I would have touched it like a child But knew my finger could but have touched Cold stone and water. I grew wild, Even accusing heaven because It had set down among its laws: Nothing that we love over-much Is ponderable to our touch.
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An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick
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I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'
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All that we did, all that we said or sang must come from contact with the soil.
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Life is a journey up a spiral staircase as we grow older we cover the ground covered we have covered before, only higher up as we look down the winding stair below us we measure our progress by the number of places where we were but no longer are. The journey is both repetitious and progressive we go both round and upward.
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The pain others give passes away in their later kindness, but that of our own blunders, especially when they hurt our vanity, never passes away
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We had fed the heart on fantasies, The heart's grown brutal from the fare, More substance in our enmities Than in our love
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What the world's million lips are searching for, must be substantial somewhere.
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Many times man lives and dies Betweeen his two eternities, That of race and that of soul, And ancient Ireland knew it all. Whether man die in his bed Or the rifle knocks him dead
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Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day.
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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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And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?
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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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How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?
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When two close kindred meet What better than call a dance?.
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I gave what other women gave That stepped out of their clothes But when this soul, its body off Naked to naked goes, He it has found shall find therein What none other knows.
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Where there is nothing, there is God.
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