William Butler Yeats Quotes

Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. No Second Troy (l. 11-12). . . The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats. Richard J. Finneran, ed. (1989) Macmillan.
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I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal.... The shallowest people on the ridge of the earth.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. letter, Aug. 30, 1888, to writer Katharine Tynan. The Collected Letters of W.B. Yeats, vol. 1, ed. John Kelly (1986).
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What is this flesh I purchased with my pains, This fallen star my milk sustains, This love that makes my heart's blood stop Or strikes a sudden chill into my bones And bids my hair stand up?
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Mother of God."
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this caricature, Decrepit age that has been tied to me As to a dog's tail?
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. The Tower (l. 2-4). . . The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats. Richard J. Finneran, ed. (1989) Macmillan.
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We have given the world our passion, We have naught for death but toys.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Upon a Dying Lady."
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I sigh that kiss you, For I must own That I shall miss you When you have grown.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "A Cradle Song."
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What were our praise to them? They eat Quiet's wild heart, like daily meat; Who when night thickens are afloat On dappled skins in a glass boat, Far out under a windless sky; While over them birds of Aengus fly....
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Baile and Aillinn."
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She smiled and that transfigured me And left me but a lout, Maundering here, and maundering there, Emptier of thought Than the heavenly circuit of its stars When the moon sails out.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "I. First Love."
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Sweetheart, do not love too long: I loved long and long, And grew to be out of fashion Like an old song.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "O Do Not Love Too Long."
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Through all the lying days of my youth I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun; Now I may wither into the truth.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Coming of Wisdom with Time."
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