Everything exists, everything is true and the earth is just a bit of dust beneath our feet.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATSI heard the old, old, men say ‘all that’s beautiful drifts away, like the waters.’
More William Butler Yeats Quotes
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And I will find some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings.
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It is love that I am seeking for, But of a beautiful, unheard-of kind That is not in the world.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Wine enters through the mouth, Love, the eyes. I raise the glass to my mouth, I look at you, I sigh.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
One man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
I heard the old, old, men say ‘all that’s beautiful drifts away, like the waters.’
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Though leaves are many, the root is one.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
I cast my heart into my rhymes, That you, in the dim coming times, May know how my heart went with them After the red-rose-bordered hem.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Only that which does not teach, which does not cry out, which does not condescend, which does not explain, is irresistible.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
If suffering brings wisdom, I would wish to be less wise.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
The mystical life is the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write. I have always considered myself a voice of what I believe to be a greater renaissance – the revolt of the soul against the intellect.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS