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
The folly that man doesOr must suffer, if he woosA proud woman not kindred of his soul.
I have no question:It is enough, I know what fixed the stationOf star and cloud.And knowing all, I cry. . . .
he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.'
The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave
Considering that, all hatred driven hence,The soul recovers radical innocenceAnd learns at last that it is self-delighting,Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will.
But where's the wild dog that has praised his fleas?
I bear a burden that might well tryMen that do all by rule,And what can IThat am a wandering-witted foolBut pray to God that He easeMy great responsibilities?
The fascination of what's difficultHas dried the sap out of my veins, and rentSpontaneous joy and natural contentOut of my heart.
Others because you did not keepThat deep-sworn vow have been friends of mine;Yet always when I look death in the face,When I clamber to the heights of sleep,Or when I grow excited with wine,Suddenly I meet your face.
Education is not the filling of the pail, but, the lighting of the fire.
Education is not filling a bucket, but lighting a fire.
Education is not filling a pail but the lighting of a fire.
The last stroke of midnight dies.All day in the one chairFrom dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have rangedIn rambling talk with an image of air:Vague memories, nothing but memories.