William Butler Yeats Quotes

Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?

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Designs in connection with postage stamps and coinage may be described, I think, as the silent ambassadors on national taste.

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O heart, we are old; The living beauty is for younger men: We cannot pay its tribute of wild tears.

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But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?

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It seems to me that love, if it is fine, is essentially a discipline.

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Even when the poet seems most himself . . . he is never the bundle of accident and incoherence that sits down to breakfast; he has been reborn as an idea, something intended, complete.

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An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick, unless soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing for every tatter in its mortal dress.

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All the great masters have understood that there cannot be great art without the little limited life of the fable, which is always better the simpler it is, and the rich, far-wandering, many-imaged life of the half-seen world beyond it

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I whispered, 'I am too young,' and then, 'I am old enough'; wherefore I threw a penny to find out if I might love.

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And I will find some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,/ Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings.

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In dreams begin responsibilitiy.

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Tis the eternal law, That first in beauty should be first in might.

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I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.

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Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.

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only an aching heart Conceives a changeless work of art.

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For the good are always the merry, / Save by an evil chance,/ And the merry love the fiddle,/ And the merry love to dance: / And when the folk there spy me,/ They will all come up to me, / With,”Here is the fiddler of Dooney!” / And dance like a wave of the sea.

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A pity beyond all telling is hid in the heart of love.

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On limestone quarried near the spot By his command these words are cut: Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by!

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I would have touched it like a child But knew my finger could but have touched Cold stone and water. I grew wild, Even accusing heaven because It had set down among its laws: Nothing that we love over-much Is ponderable to our touch.

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I thought it out this very day, Noon upon the clock, A man may put pretence away Who leans upon a stick, May sing, and sing until he drop, Whether to maid or hag.

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