That beautiful mild woman for whose sake
There's many a one shall find out all heartache
On finding that her voice is sweet and low
Replied, 'To be born a woman is to know-
Although they do not talk of it at school -
That we must labor to be beautiful.

W.B. Yeats


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The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.

W.B. Yeats

Mots clés pessimism futility



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The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.

W.B. Yeats

Mots clés perception wonder magic awe



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It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
Players and painted stage took all my love,
And not those things that they were emblems of.

[from "The Circus Animals' Desertion"]

W.B. Yeats


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If I make the lashes dark
And the eyes more bright
And the lips more scarlet,
Or ask if all be right
From mirror after mirror,
No vanity's displayed:
I'm looking for the face I had
Before the world was made.

W.B. Yeats


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The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.

W.B. Yeats


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Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.

W.B. Yeats


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All the great masters have understood that there cannot be great art without the little limited life of the fable, which is always better the simpler it is, and the rich, far-wandering, many-imaged life of the half-seen world beyond it

W.B. Yeats


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Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned
By those who are not entirely beautiful.

W.B. Yeats


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...Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World!
You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled
Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring
The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing.
Beauty grown sad with its eternity
Made you of us, and of the dim grey sea.
Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait,
For God has bid them share an equal fate;
And when at last defeated in His wars,
They have gone down under the same white stars,
We shall no longer hear the little cry
Of our sad hearts, that may not live nor die.

W.B. Yeats


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