William Butler Yeats

William Butler

Irish Poet, Playwright

Author Quotes

To crawl in her own blood, and go scott-free;

Tradition gives the one thing many shapes.

Upon the web-heaped floor, and cried his word.

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.

What is this flesh I purchased with my pains?

When I play on my fiddle in Dooney, folk dance like a wave of the sea.

Where there is nothing, there is God.

Who Goes With Fergus? Who will go drive with Fergus now, and pierce the deep wood's woven shade, and dance upon the level shore? Young man, lift up your russet brow, and lift your tender eyelids, maid, and brood on hopes and fear no more. And no more turn aside and brood upon love's bitter mystery; for Fergus rules the brazen cars, and rules the shadows of the wood, and the white breast of the dim sea and all disheveled wandering stars.

With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones.

Yet still she turns her restless head.

Sufficient money for his need.

That he may fight the horses of the sea.

The body is not bruised to pleasure soul.

The fool?s triumph, nor yet?

The official designs of the Government, especially its designs in connection with postage stamps and coinage, may be described, I think, as the silent ambassadors of national taste.

The trees are in their autumn beauty, the woodland paths are dry, under the October twilight the water mirrors a still sky.

Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes, their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay. If soul may look and body touch, which is the more blest?

There was present that night at Henley's, by right of propinquity or of accident, a man full of the secret spite of dullness, who interrupted from time to time and always to check or disorder thought.

This other man I had dreamed a drunken, vain-glorious lout. He had done most bitter wrong to some who are near my heart, yet I number him in the song; he, too, has resigned his part in the casual comedy; he, too, has been changed in his turn, transformed utterly: a terrible beauty is born.

To Emer, raddling raiment in her dun.

Traffic in mockery.

Walking ghostly in the dew.

We must be tender with all budding things. Our Maker let no thought of Calvary trouble the morning stars in their first song.

What made us dream that he could comb gray hair?

When I think of life as struggle with the Daimon who would ever set us to the hardest work among those not impossible, I understand why there is a deep enmity between a man and his destiny, and why a man loves nothing but his destiny.

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William Butler
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Irish Poet, Playwright