William Butler Yeats Quotes

That woman's days were spent In ignorant good-will, Her nights in argument Until her voice grew shrill.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. Easter 1916 (l. 17-20). . . The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats. Richard J. Finneran, ed. (1989) Macmillan.
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"Uplift those eyes and throw Those glances unafraid: She would as bravely show Did all the fabric fade; No withered crone I saw Before the world was made."
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "IX. Young Man's Song."
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O but we talked at large before The sixteen men were shot, But who can talk of give and take, What should be and what not While those dead men are loitering there To stir the boiling pot?
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Sixteen Dead Men."
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The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round, Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound, Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam, Our arms are waving, our lips are apart....
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Hosting of the Sidhe."
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The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. The Second Coming (l. 6-8). . . The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats. Richard J. Finneran, ed. (1989) Macmillan.
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Though I have locked my gate on them I pity all the young, I know what devil's trade they learn From those they live among, Their drink, their pitch and toss by day, Their robbery by night....
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Three Songs to the One Burden."
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Earth in beauty dressed Awaits returning spring. All true love must die, Alter at the best Into some lesser thing. Prove that I lie.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "X. Her Anxiety."
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May we two stand, When we are dead, beyond the setting suns, A little from other shades apart, With mingling hair, and play upon one lute.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Anashuya and Vijaya."
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We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; We are but critics, or but half create, Timid, entangled, empty and abashed, Lacking the countenance of our friends.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Ego Dominus Tuus."
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But nothing satisfied the fool But my dear Mary Moore, None other knows what pleasures man At table or in bed. What shall I do for pretty girls Now my old bawd is dead?
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. John Kinsella's Lament for Mrs. Mary Moore (l. 7-12). . . The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats. Richard J. Finneran, ed. (1989) Macmillan.
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