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How can the arts overcome the slow dying of men's hearts that we call progress ?
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
Overcoming
Hearts
Dying
Progress
Call
Art
Overcome
Heart
Arts
Men
Slow
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There are no strangers here Only friends you haven't yet met.
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Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day.
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It's certain that fine women eat A crazy salad with their meat.
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For to articulate sweet sounds together Is to work harder than all these, and yet Be thought an idler by the noisy set Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen The martyrs call the world.
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There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.
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Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood, Even where horrible green parrots call and swing. My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud.
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Where there is nothing, there is God.
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Let the new faces play what tricks they will In the old rooms night can outbalance day, Our shadows rove the garden gravel still, The living seem more shadowy than they.
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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 common breeds the common, A lout begets a lout, So when I take on half a score I knock their heads about.
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Those men that in their writings are most wise Own nothing but their blind, stupefied hearts.
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I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.
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Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic heart.
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When Walt Whitman writes in seeming defiance of tradition, he needs tradition for his protection, for the butcher and the baker and the candlestick-maker grow merry over him when they meet his work by chance.
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I think it better that in times like these a poet's mouth be silent, for in truth we have no gift to set a statesman right.
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Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
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I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal. The shallowest people on the ridge of the earth.
William Butler Yeats
If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
William Butler Yeats
I think all happiness depends on the energy to assume the mask of some other life, on a re-birth as something not one's self.
William Butler Yeats
The fascination of what's difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content Out of my heart.
William Butler Yeats
