William Butler Yeats Quotes

The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.

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I hear it in the deep heart's core.

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Education is not about filling a pail, it's about lighting a fire.

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Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

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

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Love comes in at the eye.

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Come away, O human child: To the waters and the wild with a fairy, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

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Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate, I find under the boughs of love and hate, In all poor foolish things that live a day, Eternal beauty wandering on her way.

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The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.

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Words alone are certain good.

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All art is in the last analysis an endeavor to condense as out of the flying vapor of the world an image of human perfection, and for its own and not for the art's sake.

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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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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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The common breeds the common, A lout begets a lout, So when I take on half a score I knock their heads about.

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I see a schoolboy when I think of him, With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window.

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And God would bid His warfare cease, Saying all things were well; And softly make a rosy peace, A peace of Heaven with Hell.

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I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .

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There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.

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Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?

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Everything exists, everything is true and the earth is just a bit of dust beneath our feet.

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