William Butler Yeats Quotes

Had there been no Renaissance and no Italian influence to bring in the stories of other lands English history would, it may be, have become as important to the English imagination as the Greek Myths to the Greek imagination; and many plays by many poets would have woven it into a single story whose contours, vast as those of Greek myth, would have made living men and women seem like swallows building their nests under the architrave of some Temple of the Giants.

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Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.

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only an aching heart Conceives a changeless work of art.

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But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?

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... Let the cage bird and the cage bird mate and the wild bird mate in the wild.

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The mystical life is at the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.

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I kiss you and kiss you, With arms around my own, Ah, how shall I miss you, When, dear, you have grown.

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What's memory but the ash That chokes our fires that have begun to sink?

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When we are high and airy hundreds say That if we hold that flight they'll leave the place, While those same hundreds mock another day Because we have made our art of common things.

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But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.

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When Walt Whitman writes in seeming defiance of tradition, he needs tradition for his protection, for the butcher and the baker and the candlestick-maker grow merry over him when they meet his work by chance.

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The friends that have it I do wrong Whenever I remake a song, Should know what issue is at stake: It is myself that I remake.

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O would, beloved, that you lay Under the dock-leaves in the ground, While lights were paling one by one.

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Women are hard and proud and stubborn-hearted, Their heads being turned with praise and flattery; And that is why their lovers are afraid To tell them a plain story.

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For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

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I am haunted by numberless islands, many a Danaan shore, Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more;Soon far from the rose and the lily and fret of the flames would we be, Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea!

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The old priest Peter Gilligan Was weary night and day; For half his flock were in their beds, Or under green sods lay.

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Man's life is thought, And he, despite his terror, cannot cease Ravening through century after century, Ravening, raging, and uprooting that he may come Into the desolation of reality.

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The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves The brilliant moon and all the milky sky And all that famous harmony of leaves Had blotted out man's image and his cry.

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We are closed in, and the key is turned / On our uncertainty.

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