Nor dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all.

W.B. Yeats

Tags: death hope afterlife prayer



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rhetoric is will doing the work of imagination

W.B. Yeats


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How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?

W.B. Yeats

Tags: life



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Too many things are occurring for even a big heart to hold.

W.B. Yeats


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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

W.B. Yeats


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Think where man's glory most begins and ends
And say my glory was I had such friends.

W.B. Yeats

Tags: friends glory



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Literature is always personal, always one man's vision of the world, one man's experience, and it can only be popular when men are ready to welcome the visions of others.

W.B. Yeats

Tags: literature



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Brown Penny

I WHISPERED, 'I am too young,'
And then, 'I am old enough';
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
'Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair.'
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.
O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.

W.B. Yeats

Tags: love



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Myself I must remake.

W.B. Yeats


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An Irish Airman foresees his Death

I Know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those that I guard I do not love,
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public man, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
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.

W.B. Yeats

Tags: poem yeats airman william butler



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