William Butler Yeats
William Butler Yeats
William Butler Yeatswas an Irish poet and one of the foremost figures of 20th-century literature. A pillar of both the Irish and British literary establishments, in his later years he served as an Irish Senator for two terms. Yeats was a driving force behind the Irish Literary Revival and, along with Lady Gregory, Edward Martyn, and others, founded the Abbey Theatre, where he served as its chief during its early years. In 1923, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in...
NationalityIrish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth13 June 1865
CitySandymount, Ireland
CountryIreland
The Danaan children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold, And clap their hands together, and half close their eyes, For they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies, With heavy whitening wings, and a heart fallen cold....
I say that Roger Casement Did what he had to do, He died upon the gallows But that is nothing new.
Now must we sing and sing the best we can, But first you must be told your character: Convicted cowards all, by kindred slain.
The visible world is no longer a reality and the unseen world no longer a dream.
For such, Being made beautiful overmuch, Consider beauty a sufficient end, Lose natural kindness and maybe The heart-revealing intimacy That chooses right, and never find a friend. r
A thought Of that late death took all my heart for speech.
Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.
O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head You'd know the folly of being comforted.
Englishmen are babes in philosophy and so prefer faction-fighting to the labor of its unfamiliar thought.
Whatever flames upon the night Man's own resinous heart has fed.
Love is created and preserved by intellectual analysis, for we love only that which is unique, and it belongs to contemplation, not to action, for we would not change that which we love.
While they danced they came over them the weariness with the world, the melancholy, the pity one for the other, which is the exultation of love.
When such as I cast out remorse; So great a sweetness flows into the breast; We must laugh and we must sing, We are blest by everything, Everything we look upon is blessed.
This great purple butterfly, In the prison of my hands, Has a learning in his eye Not a poor fool understands.