Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATSAnd I will find some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings.
More William Butler Yeats Quotes
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God guard me from those thoughts men think In the mind alone.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Joy is of the will which labours, which overcomes obstacles, which knows triumph.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
And wisdom is a butterfly And not a gloomy bird of prey.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
And I will find some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
When two close kindred meet, What better than call a dance?
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
I heard the old, old, men say ‘all that’s beautiful drifts away, like the waters.’
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
A statesman is an easy man, he tells his lies by rote. A journalist invents his lies, and rams them down your throat. So stay at home and drink your beer and let the neighbors vote.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Hearts are not had as a gift, But hearts are earned.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
The Irishman sustains himself during brief periods of joy by the knowledge that tragedy is just around the corner.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
And pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon the golden apples of the sun.
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Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.
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The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.
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Words are always getting conventionalized to some secondary meaning. It is one of the works of poetry to take the truants in custody and bring them back to their right senses.
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Though leaves are many, the root is one; Through all the lying days of my youth I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun Now I may wither into the truth.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World! You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled. Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS