Love is created and preserved by intellectual analysis, for we love only that which is unique, and it belongs to contemplation, not to action, for we would not change that which we love.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATSIt is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is.
More William Butler Yeats Quotes
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only an aching heart Conceives a changeless work of art.
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One should say before sleeping: I have lived many lives. I have been a slave and a prince. Many a beloved has sat upon my knee and I have sat upon the knees of many a beloved. Everything that has been shall be again.
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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.
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In dreams begin responsibilitiy.
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Yet they that know all things but know That all this life can give us is, A child’s laughter, a woman’s kiss.
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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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People who lean on logic and philosophy and rational exposition end by starving the best part of the mind.
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And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.
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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.
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An intellectual hate is the worst.
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Everything that’s lovely is But a brief, dreamy kind of delight.
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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!
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Literature is always personal, always one man’s vision of the world, one man’s experience, and it can only be popular when men are ready to welcome the visions of others.
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Only that which does not teach, which does not cry out, which does not condescend, which does not explain, is irresistible.
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We are closed in, and the key is turned / On our uncertainty.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS