William Butler Yeats Quotes
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There is only one romance the Soul's.
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to be choked with hate May well be of all evil chances chief.
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Being young you have not known The fool's triumph, nor yet Love lost as soon as won, Nor the best labourer dead And all the sheaves to bind.
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I know, although when looks meet I tremble to the bone, The more I leave the door unlatched The sooner love is gone.
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Grant me an old man's frenzy, Myself must I remake Till I am Timon and Lear Or that William Blake Who beat upon the wall Till Truth obeyed his call.
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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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And learn that the best thing is To change my loves while dancing And pay but a kiss for a kiss.
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Now must we sing and sing the best we can, But first you must be told your character: Convicted cowards all, by kindred slain.
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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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Englishmen are babes in philosophy and so prefer faction-fighting to the labour of its unfamiliar thought.
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It is not permitted to a man, who takes up pen or chisel, to seek originality, for passion is his only business, and he cannot but mould or sing after a new fashion because no disaster is like another.
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There is no release In a bodkin or disease, Nor can there be a work so great As that which cleans man's dirty slate.
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Farewell - farewell, For I am weary of the weight of time.
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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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We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.
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... What matter, so there is but fire In you, in me?
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Great Powers of falling wave and wind and windy fire, With your harmonious choir Encircle her I love and sing her into peace, That my old care may cease.
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Earth in beauty dressed Awaits returning spring. All true love must die, Alter at the best Into some lesser thing. Prove that I lie.
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Come, fix upon me that accusing eye. I thirst for accusation. All that was sung. All that was said in Ireland is a lie Breed out of the contagion of the throng, Saving the rhyme rats hear before they die.
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Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enameling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
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But stories that live longest Are sung above the glass, And Parnell loved his country And Parnell loved his lass.
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Come swish around my pretty punk And keep me dancing still That I may stay a sober man Although I drink my fill.
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I sat on cushioned otter-skin: My word was law from Ith to Emain, And shook at Invar Amargin The hearts of the world-troubling seamen, And drove tumult and war away.
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My chair was nearest to the fire In every company That talked of love or politics, Ere Time transfigured me.