William Butler Yeats

William Butler

Irish Poet, Playwright

Author Quotes

Where the wave of moonlight glosses the dim gray sands with light, far off by furthest Rosses we foot it all the night, weaving olden dances, mingling hands and mingling glances till the moon has taken flight; to and fro we leap and chase the frothy bubbles, while the world is full of troubles and is anxious in its sleep.

Who follow with the optic glass?

With a faery, hand in hand.

Yet somewhere under starlight or the sun.

Storm darkened or starry bright.

That had such burdens on the mind.

The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.

The falcon cannot hear the falconer.

The mystical life is the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write. . . . I have always considered myself a voice of what I believe to be a greater renaissance - the revolt of the soul against the intellect.

The things a man has heard and seen are threads of life, and if he pull them carefully from the confused distaff of memory, any who will can weave them into whatever garments of belief please them best. I too have woven my garment like another, but I shall try to keep warm in it, and shall be well content if it do not unbecome me.

The years to come seemed waste of breath.

There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, and evening full of the linnet's wings.

This love that makes my heart's blood stop.

To be choked with hate may well be of all evil chances chief. If there?s no hatred in a mind assault and battery of the wind can never tear the linnet from the leaf.

Too many things are occurring for even a big heart to hold.

Upon the brimming water among the stones are nine-and-fifty swans.

We know their dream; enough.

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.

Suffer as your mother suffered.

That he had found a text to prove.

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William Butler
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Irish Poet, Playwright