William Butler Yeats Quotes

Your beauty can but leave among us Vague memories, nothing but memories. A young man when the old men are done talking Will say to an old man, "Tell me of that lady The poet stubborn with his passion sang us When age might well have chilled his blood."
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Broken Dreams."
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An abstract Greek absurdity has crazed the man, A Trinity that is wholly masculine. Man, woman, child (daughter or son), That's how all natural or supernatural stories run. Natural and supernatural with the self-same ring are wed.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "II. Ribh Denounces Patrick."
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Though pedantry denies, It's plain the Bible means That Solomon grew wise While talking with his queens....
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "On Woman."
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That country where a man can be so crossed; Can be so battered, badgered and destroyed That he's a loveless man....
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Dedication to a Book of Stories Selected from the Irish Novelists."
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"What have I earned for all that work," I said, "For all that I have done at my own charge? The daily spite of this unmannerly town, Where who has served the most is most defamed, The reputation of his lifetime lost Between the night and morning...."
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The People."
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A lady with soft eyes like funeral tapers, And face that seemed wrought out of moonlit vapours, And a sad mouth, that fear made tremulous As any ruddy moth, looked down on us; And she with a wave-rusted chain was tied To two old eagles, full of ancient pride....
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Wanderings of Oisin."
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Although the summer sunlight gild Cloudy leafage of the sky, Or wintry moonlight sink the field In storm-scattered intricacy, I cannot look thereon, Responsibility so weighs me down.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Vacillation."
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I am content to live it all again, And yet again, if it be life to pitch Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. A Dialogue of Self and Soul (l. 56-58). . . The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats. Richard J. Finneran, ed. (1989) Macmillan.
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There is grey in your hair. Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath When you are passing; But maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing Because it was your prayer Recovered him upon the bed of death.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Broken Dreams."
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What's riches to him That has made a great peacock With the pride of his eye? The wind-beaten, stone-grey, And desolate Three Rock Would nourish his whim.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "II. The Peacock."
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