Quotes from William Butler Yeats

For nothing can be sole or whole. That has not been rent.

We and the labouring world are passing by: Amid men's souls, that waver and give place Like the pale waters in their wintry race, Under the passing stars, foam of the sky, Lives on this lonely face.

And no more turn aside and brood Upon love's bitter mystery;

The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.

O SWEET everlasting Voices, be still; Go to the guards of the heavenly fold And bid them wander obeying your will, Flame under flame, till Time be no more; Have you not heard that our hearts are old, That you call in birds, in wind on the hill, In shaken boughs, in tide on the shore? O sweet everlasting Voices, be still.

Happiness is neither virtue or pleasure nor this thing or that, but simply growth. We are happy when we are growing.

When I think of life as struggle with the Daimon who would ever set us to the hardest work among those not impossible, I understand why there is a deep enmity between a man and his destiny, and why a man loves nothing but his destiny.

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

But is there any comfort to be found? Man is in love and loves what vanishes, What more is there to say?

The first time I saw him he was cooking mushrooms for himself; the next time he was asleep under a hedge, smiling in his sleep. He was indeed always cheerful, though I thought I could see in his eyes (swift as the eyes of a rabbit, when they peered out of their wrinkled holes) a melancholy which was well-nigh a portion of their joy; the visionary melancholy of purely instinctive natures and of all animals.

At midnight on the Emperor's pavement flit Flames that no faggot feeds, nor steel has lit, Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame, Where blood-begotten spirits come And all complexities of fury leave, Dying into a dance, An agony of trance, An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve.

There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven't yet met.

One had a lovely face, And two or three had charm, But charm and face were in vain Because the mountain grass Cannot but keep the form Where the mountain hare has lain. - Memory

Sing, for it may be that your thoughts have plucked Some medicable herb to make our grief Less bitter.

Away with us he's going, The solemn-eyed: He'll hear no more the lowing Of the calves on the warm hillside Or the kettle on the hob Sing peace into his breast, Or see the brown mice bob Round and round the oatmeal chest. For he comes, the human child, To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.

The Coming of Wisdom with Time Though leaves are many, the root is one; Through all the lying days of my youth I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun; Now I may wither into the truth.

Uzakl?klar sevenler için önemsizdir.  Çünkü gerçek sevgiyi anlatan tek duygu; özlemektir

I balanced all, brought all to mind, The years to come seemed waste of breath, A waste of breath the years behind In balance with this life, this death.

The Magi" Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye, In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones Appear and disappear in the blue depths of the sky With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones, And all their helms of silver hovering side by side, And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more, Being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied, The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

When I think of all the books I have read, wise words heard, anxieties given to parents, ... of hopes I have had, all life weighed in the balance of my own life seems to me a preparation for something that never happens.

Lui qui aurait voulu pouvoir offrir le ciel Si je pouvais t'offrir le bleu secret du ciel Brodé de lumière d'or et de reflets d'argents Le mystérieux secret, le secret éternel De la nuit et du jour, de la vie et du temps Avec tout mon amour je le mettrais à tes pieds Mais tu sais je suis pauvre et je n'ai que mes rêves Alors c'est de mes rêves qu'il faut te contenter Marche doucement, car tu marches sur mes rêves

There is a war between the living and the dead, and the Irish stories keep harping upon it. ("The Queen And The Fool")

What is clearest, most memorable and important about art is its coming into being, and the world's best works of art, while telling of very diverse matters, are really telling about their birth.

In the dim kingdom there is a great abundance of all excellent things. There is more love there than upon the earth; there is more dancing there than upon the earth; and there is more treasure there than upon the earth. In the beginning the earth was perhaps made to fulfill the desire of man, but now it has got old and fallen into decay. What wonder if we try and pilfer the treasures of that other kingdom! ("The Three O'Byrnes and the Evil Faeries")