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
Until the axle break That keeps the stars in their round, And hands hurl in the deep The banners of East and West, And the girdle of light is unbound, Your breast will not lie by the breast Of your beloved in sleep
It is a hard thing to be married to a man of learning that must always be having arguments.
Time to put off the world and go somewhereAnd find my health again in the sea air,"Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,"And make my soul before my pate is bare.
Time's bitter flood will rise,Your beauty perish and be lostFor all eyes but these eyes.
Time's bitter flood will rise, Your beauty perish and be lost For all eyes but these eyes.
Those images that yetFresh images beget,That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea.
To be born woman is to know -- although they do not speak of it at school -- women must labor to be beautiful.
Where got I that truth? Out of a medium's mouth, Out of nothing it came, Out of the forest loam, Out of dark night where lay The crowns of Nineveh
Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood, But joy is wisdom, time an endless song.
We . . . are no petty people. We are of the great stocks of Europe. We are the people of Burke; we are the people of Swift, the people of Emmet, the people of Parnell. We have created most of the modern literature of this country. We have created the best of its political intelligence.
A man who does not exist,A man who is but a dream.
The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God the herdsman treads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.
This melancholy London- I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.
And therefore I have sailed the seas and comeTo the holy city of Byzantium.