It is one of the great troubles of life that we cannot have any unmixed emotions. There is always something in our enemy that we like, and something in our sweetheart that we dislike.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATSTake, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
More William Butler Yeats Quotes
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The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Though leaves are many, the root is one.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven’t yet met.
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 -
What can be explained is not poetry.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Where there is nothing, there is God.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Beloved, let your eyes half close, and your heart beat Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast, Drowning love’s lonely hour in deep twilight of rest.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Myself I must remake.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Choose your companions from the best; Who draws a bucket with the rest soon topples down the hill.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
only an aching heart Conceives a changeless work of art.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Everything that’s lovely is But a brief, dreamy kind of delight.
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 -
Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
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 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