Never to have lived is best, ancient
writers say;
Never to have drawn the breath of life,
never to have looked into the eye of
day;
The second best’s a gay good night and
quickly turn away.

W.B. Yeats


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And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love's bitter mystery;
For Fergus rules the brazen cars,
And rules the shadows of the wood,
And the white breast of the dim sea
And all disheveled wandering stars.

W.B. Yeats


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But he heard high up in the air
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.

W.B. Yeats

Mots clés the-host-of-the-air



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One that is ever kind said yesterday:
'Your well-beloved's hair has threads of grey,
And little shadows come about her eyes;
Time can but make it easier to be wise
Though now it seems impossible, and so
All that you need is patience.'

Heart cries, 'No,
I have not a crumb of comfort, not a grain.
Time can but make her beauty over again:
Because of that great nobleness of hers
The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs,
Burns but more clearly. O she had not these ways
When all the wild Summer was in her gaze.'

Heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head,
You'd know the folly of being comforted!

W.B. Yeats


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Of all the many changing things
In dreary dancing past us whirled,
To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,
Words alone are certain good.

W.B. Yeats


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Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is lost
The best lack all conviction, while the worst are filled with passionate intensity.

W.B. Yeats

Mots clés yeats



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I have spread my dreams under your feet.
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

W.B. Yeats


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Labour is blossoming or dancing where
The body is not bruised to pleasure soul.

W.B. Yeats

Mots clés dance soul work



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A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again

W.B. Yeats


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O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?

W.B. Yeats

Mots clés dance wb-yeats



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