William Butler Yeats Quotes

From where Pan's cavern is Intolerable music falls. Foul goat-head, brutal arm appear, Belly, shoulder, bum, Flash fishlike; nymphs and satyrs Copulate in the foam.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. News for the Delphic Oracle (l. 31-36). . . The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats. Richard J. Finneran, ed. (1989) Macmillan.
(3) (0)
The intellect of man is forced to choose Perfection of the life, or of the work,
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. The Choice (l. 1-2). . . The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats. Richard J. Finneran, ed. (1989) Macmillan.
(8) (0)
The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told; I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart....
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Lover Tells of the Rose in His Heart."
(2) (0)
Away with us he's going, The solemn-eyed: He'll hear no more the lowing Of the calves on the warm hillside Or the kettle on the hob Sing peace into his breast,
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. The Stolen Child (l. 43-48). . . The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats. Richard J. Finneran, ed. (1989) Macmillan.
(2) (0)
I would that I were an old beggar Rolling a blind pearl eye, For he cannot see my lady Go gallivanting by.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Two Songs Rewritten for the Tune's Sake."
(3) (0)
St Joseph thought the world would melt But liked the way his finger smelt.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "A Stick of Incense."
(3) (1)
Processions that lack high stilts have nothing that catches the eye. What if my great-granddad had a pair that were twenty foot high, And mine were but fifteen foot, no modern stalks upon higher, Some rogue of the world stole them to patch up a fence or a fire.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "High Talk."
(2) (0)
But is there any comfort to be found? Man is in love and loves what vanishes, What more is there to say?
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen."
(8) (1)
In luck or out the toil has left its mark: That old perplexity an empty purse, Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. The Choice (l. 6-8). . . The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats. Richard J. Finneran, ed. (1989) Macmillan.
(2) (1)
I wander on, and wave my hands, And sing, and shake my heavy locks. The grey wolf knows me; by one ear I lead along the woodland deer; The hares run by me growing bold.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Madness of King Goll."
(2) (1)