Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATSRose 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.
More William Butler Yeats Quotes
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Hearts are not had as a gift, But hearts are earned.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
It seems to me that love, if it is fine, is essentially a discipline.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
By logic and reason we die hourly; by imagination we live.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Do not wait to strike till the iron is hot; but make it hot by striking.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Everything exists, everything is true and the earth is just a bit of dust beneath our feet.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Teaching is not filling up a pail, it is lighting a fire.
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 -
The visible world is no longer a reality and the unseen world no longer a dream.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Choose your companions from the best; Who draws a bucket with the rest soon topples down the hill.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
All men live in suffering I know as few can know, Whether they take the upper road Or stay content on the low.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
It takes more courage to dig deep in the dark corners of your own soul and the back alleys of your society than it does for a soldier to fight on the battlefield.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
God guard me from those thoughts men think In the mind alone.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.
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 -
We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS