William Butler Yeats Quotes

Pull down the blinds, bring fiddle and clarionet That there be no foot silent in the room Nor mouth from kissing, nor from wine unwet; Our Father Rosicross is in his tomb.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Mountain Tomb."
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When an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay; Our hearts endure the scourge, the plaited thorns, the way Crowded with bitter faces, the wounds in palm and side, The vinegar-heavy sponge, the flowers by Kedron stream....
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Travail of Passion."
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With the old kindness, the old distinguished grace, She lies, her lovely piteous head amid dull red hair Propped upon pillows, rouge on the pallor of her face. She would not have us sad because she is lying there, And when she meets our gaze her eyes are laughter-lit, Her speech a wicked tale that we may vie with her....
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Upon a Dying Lady."
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The angels are stooping Above your bed; They weary of trooping With the whimpering dead.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "A Cradle Song."
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Yet they that know all things but know That all this life can give us is A child's laughter, a woman's kiss.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Baile and Aillinn."
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when such bodies join There is no touching here, nor touching there, Nor straining joy, but whole is joined to whole; For the intercourse of angels is a light Where for its moment both seem lost, consumed.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "I. Ribh at the Tomb of Baile and Aillinn"...."
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All through the years of our youth Neither could have known Their own thought from the other's, We were so much at one.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "O Do Not Love Too Long."
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The years like great black oxen tread the world, And God the herdsman treads them on behind, And I am broken by their passing feet.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. The Countess Cathleen, act 4 (1891). Last lines.
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All that we did, all that we said or sang Must come from contact with the soil, from that Contact everything Antaeus-like grew strong. We three alone in modern times had brought Everything down to that sole test again, Dream of the noble and the beggarman.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Municipal Gallery Revisited."
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After Stéphane Mallarmé, after Paul Verlaine, after Gustave Moreau, after Puvis de Chavannes, after our own verse, after all our subtle colour and nervous rhythm, after the faint mixed tints of Conder, what more is possible? After us the Savage God.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Trembling of the Veil," bk. 4, sect. 20, Autobiographies (1926).
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