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 YEATSBut I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
More William Butler Yeats Quotes
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Every conquering temptation represents a new fund of moral energy. Every trial endured and weathered in the right spirit makes a soul nobler and stronger than it was before.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Myself I must remake.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
When two close kindred meet, What better than call a dance?
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
Ecstasy is from the contemplation of things vaster than the individual and imperfectly seen perhaps, by all those that still live.
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 -
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 -
It seems to me that true love is a discipline.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
In dreams begin responsibilitiy.
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 -
From our birthday, until we die, Is but the winking of an eye.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
I believe that our memories are part of one great memory, the memory of Nature herself.
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 -
One man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS -
We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS