William Butler Yeats Quotes
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And when you sigh from kiss to kiss I hear white Beauty sighing, too, For hours when all must fade like dew.
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Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn, Come clear of the nets of wrong and right; Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight, Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.
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When we have blamed the wind we can blame love.
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The poor have very few hours in which to enjoy themselves; they must take their pleasure raw; they haven't the time to cook it.
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Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.
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Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.
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One should not lose one's temper unless one is certain of getting more and more angry to the end.
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The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.
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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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BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there.
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Yet they that know all things but know That all this life can give us is A child's laughter, a woman's kiss.
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Test every work of intellect or faith and everything that your own hands have wrought.
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Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.
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Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.
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Love is based on inequality as friendship is on equality.
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If Michael, leader of God's host When Heaven and Hell are met, Looked down on you from Heaven's door-post He would his deeds forget.
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O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head You'd know the folly of being comforted.
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We are closed in, and the key is turned / On our uncertainty.
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This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.
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on the instant clamorous eaves, A climbing moon upon an empty sky, And all that lamentation of the leaves, Could but compose man's image and his cry.
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It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is
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When a man grows old his joy Grows more deep day after day, His empty heart is full at length But he has need of all that strength Because of the increasing Night That opens her mystery and fright.
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Time can but make her beauty over again.
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If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.