There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATSGod guard me from those thoughts men think In the mind alone.
More William Butler Yeats Quotes
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I’m looking for the face I had, before the world was made.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
All dreams of the soul End in a beautiful man’s or woman’s body.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
All that I have said and done, Now that I am old and ill, Turns into a question till I lie awake night after night And never get the answers right.
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 -
We are closed in, and the key is turned / On our uncertainty.
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 -
Teaching is not filling up a pail, it is lighting a fire.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
only an aching heart Conceives a changeless work of art.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Mysticism has been in the past and probably ever will be one of the great powers of the world and it is bad scholarship to pretend the contrary.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Yet they that know all things but know That all this life can give us is, A child’s laughter, a woman’s kiss.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
I have observed dreams and visions very carefully, and am now certain that the imagination has some way of lighting on the truth that the reason has not, and that its commandments, delivered when the body is still and the reason silent, are the most binding we can ever know.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
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.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
And pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon the golden apples of the sun.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS