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The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away.

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
Gates
Sadness
Blow
Lonely
Wind
Away
Withered
Heart
Sad
Blows

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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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Nothing but stillness can remain when hearts are full Of their own sweetness, bodies of their loveliness.
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For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
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Now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
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Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.
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Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again! The beggars have changed places, but the lash goes on.
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We poets would die of loneliness but for women, and we choose our men friends that we may have somebody to talk about women with. Letter to Olivia Shakespeare, 1936
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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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If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
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Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.
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The intellect of man is forced to choose Perfection of the life, or of the work And if it take the second must refuse A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.
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I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'
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I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea! We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fadeand flee And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky, Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die.
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Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.
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One man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
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For those that love the world serve it in action, Grow rich, popular, and full of influence And should they paint or write still is it action, The struggle of the fly in marmalade.
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Too many things are occurring for even a big heart to hold.
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