William Butler Yeats Quotes
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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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Things said or done long years ago Or things I did not do or say But thought that I might say or do, Weigh me down, and not a day But something is recalled, My conscience or my vanity appalled.
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All men live in suffering I know as few can know, Whether they take the upper road Or stay content on the low.
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Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.
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The soldier takes pride in saluting his Captain, The devotee proffers a knee to his Lord, Some back a mare thrown from a thoroughbred, Troy backed its Helen, Troy died and adored; Great nations blossom above, A slave bows down to a slave.
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I Sing what was lost and dread what was won, / I walk in a battle fought over again.
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Where the world ends The mind is made unchanging, for it finds Miracle, ecstasy, the impossible hope, The flagstone under all, the fire of fires, The roots of the world.
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The light of lights looks always on the motive, not the deed, the shadow of shadows on the deed alone.
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There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven't yet met.
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Time can but make her beauty over again.
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It's certain there is no fine thing Since Adam's fall but needs much laboring.
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I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow; And then I must scrub and bake and sweep Till the stars are beginning to blink and peep; And the young lie long and dream in their bed.
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Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream? For these red lips, with all their mournful pride, Mournful that no new wonder may betide, Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam, And Usna's children died.
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"Chaunt in his ear delusions magical, That he may fight the horses of the sea." The Druids took them to their mystery, And chaunted for three days.
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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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We taste and feel and see the truth. We do not reason ourselves into it.
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Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.
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The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed Gray Truth is now her painted toy.
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What shall I do for pretty girls Now my old bawd is dead?
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The Muse is mute when public men Applaud a modern throne.
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I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams.
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Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?
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The blessed spirits must be sought within the self which is common to all
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Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?