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
One had a lovely face, and two or three had charm, but charm and face were in vain. Because the mountain grass cannot keep the form where the mountain hare has lain.
I hear the wind a blow I hear the grass a grow, And all that I know, I know. But I will not speak, I will run away.
An intellectual hatred is the worst,So let her think opinions are accursed.
Speak, speak, for underneath the cover thereThe sand is running from the upper glass,And when the last grain's through, I shall be lost.
Speak, speak, for underneath the cover there The sand is running from the upper glass, And when the last grain's through, I shall be lost.
I would be -- for no knowledge is worth a straw --Ignorant and wanton as the dawn.
May she be granted beauty and yet notBeauty to make a stranger's eye distraught,Or hers before a looking-glass, for such,Being made beautiful overmuch,Consider beauty a sufficient end,Lose natural kindness and maybeThe heart-revealing intimacyThat chooses right, and never find a friend.
Cast a cold eyeOn life, on deathHorseman, pass by!
Their hearts are wild,As be the hearts of birds, till children come.
I have believed the best of every man. And find that to believe it is enough to make a bad man show him at his best, or even a good man swing his lantern higher.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,Nor public men, nor cheering crowds.
Did that play of mine send outCertain men the English shot?
Now that my ladder's goneI must lie down where all ladders startIn the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect monuments of unaging intellect