William Butler Yeats Quotes

The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. Letter, late summer 1886. Collected Letters, vol. 1, ed. John Kelly (1986). "I hate reasonable people," Yeats wrote, explaining his dislike for the novelist George Eliot, "the activity of their brains sucks up all the blood out of their hearts."
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Seventy years have I lived No ragged beggar man, Seventy years have I lived, Seventy years man and boy, And never have I danced for joy.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Imitated from the Japanese."
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Ah, that Time could touch a form That could show what Homer's age Bred to be a hero's wage.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Peace."
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When I play on my fiddle in Dooney, Folk dance like a wave of the sea....
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Fiddler of Dooney."
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O hurry to the ragged wood, for there I will drive all those lovers out and cry O my share of the world, O yellow hair! No one has ever loved but you and I.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Ragged Wood."
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Through winter-time we call on spring, And through the spring on summer call, And when abounding hedges ring Declare that winter's best of all; And after that there's nothing good Because the spring-time has not come....
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Wheel."
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The women take so little stock In what I do or say They'd sooner leave their cosseting To hear a jackass bray....
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "VI. His Memories."
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Speech after long silence; it is right, All other lovers being estranged or dead,
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. After Long Silence (l. 1-2). . . The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats. Richard J. Finneran, ed. (1989) Macmillan.
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This melancholy London—I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. Letter, August 25, 1888, to writer Katharine Tynan (later Hinkson). Collected Letters of W.B. Yeats, vol. 1, ed. John Kelly (1986).
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But where is laid the sailor John That so many lands had known, Quiet lands or unquiet seas Where the Indians trade or Japanese? He never found his rest ashore, Moping for one voyage more.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "In Memory of Alfred Pollexfen."
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