William Butler Yeats Quotes

But popular rage, Hysterica passio dragged this quarry down. None shared our guilt; nor did we play a part Upon a painted stage when we devoured his heart.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Parnell's Funeral."
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The hour of the waning of love has beset us, And weary and worn are our sad souls now; Let us part, ere the season of passion forget us, With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Falling of the Leaves."
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A pity beyond all telling Is hid in the heart of love.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. The Pity of Love, The Rose (1893).
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Saint, do you weep? I hear amid the thunder The Fenian horses; armour torn asunder; Laughter and cries. The armies clash and shock, And now the daylight-darkening ravens flock. Cease, cease, O mournful, laughing Fenian horn!
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Wanderings of Oisin."
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Test every work of intellect or faith And everything that your own hands have wrought, And call those works extravagance of breath That are not suited for such men as come Proud, open-eyed and laughing to the tomb.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Vacillation."
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I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven (l. 7-8). . . Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, The. Richard Ellmann and Robert O'Clair, eds. (2d ed., 1988) W. W. Norton & Company.
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I can forgive even that wrong of wrongs, Those undreamt accidents that have made me Seeing that Fame has perished this long while, Being but a part of ancient ceremony Notorious, till all my priceless things Are but a post the passing dogs defile.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Closing Rhyme."
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Two heavy trestles, and a board Where Sato's gift, a changeless sword, By pen and paper lies, That it may moralise My days out of their aimlessness.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "III. My Table."
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Their school a crowd, his master solitude; Through Jonathan Swift's dark grove he passed, and there Plucked bitter wisdom that enriched his blood.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Parnell's Funeral."
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My curse on plays That have to be set up in fifty ways, On the day's war with every knave and dolt, Theater business, management of men.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. The Fascination of What's Difficult (l. 8-11). . . The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats. Richard J. Finneran, ed. (1989) Macmillan.
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