William Butler Yeats Quotes

"My eyes are blinking," Dathi said, "With the secrets of God half blind, But I can see where the wind goes And follow the way of the wind; "And blessedness goes where the wind goes...."
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Blessed."
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O heart, we are old; The living beauty is for younger men: We cannot pay its tribute of wild tears.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Living Beauty."
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I bend my body to the spade Or grope with a dirty hand.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Spirit Medium."
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Was it the double of my dream The woman that by me lay Dreamed, or did we halve a dream Under the first cold gleam of day?
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Towards Break of Day."
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Behold that great Plotinus swim Buffeted by such seas; Bland Rhadamanthus beckons him, But the Golden Race looks dim, Salt blood blocks his eyes.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "XXV. The Delphic Oracle upon Plotinus."
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I pray for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "A Prayer for Old Age."
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She is foremost of those that I would hear praised. I will talk no more of books or the long war But walk by the dry thorn until I have found Some beggar sheltering from the wind, and there Manage the talk until her name come round.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Her Praise."
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But bear in mind your lover's wage Is what your looking-glass can show, And that he will turn green with rage At all that is not pictured there.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Michael Robartes and the Dancer."
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And Cumhal saw like a drifting smoke All manner of blessed souls, Women and children, young men with books, And old men with croziers and stoles.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Blessed."
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cover the pale blossoms of your breast With your dim heavy hair, And trouble with a sigh for all things longing for rest The odorous twilight there.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Lover Asks Forgiveness Because of His Many Moods."
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