“My anthology continues to sell & the critics get more & more angry. When I excluded Wilfred Owen, whom I consider unworthy of the poets' corner of a country newspaper, I did not know I was excluding a revered sandwich-board… — W.B. Yeats Copy Share Image
“The host is rushing 'twixt day and night, And where is there hope or deed as fair? Caoilte tossing his burning hair, And Niamh… — W.B. Yeats Copy Share
“For the good are always the merry, Save by an evil chance, And the merry love the fiddle, And the merry love to dance.” — W.B. Yeats Copy Share
“I spit upon the dancers painted by Degas. I spit upon their short bodies, their stiff stays, their toes whereupon they spin like peg-tops,… — W.B. Yeats Copy Share
“I had fallen into a profound dream-like reverie in which I heard him speaking as at a distance. 'And yet there is no one… — W.B. Yeats Copy Share
“Be you still, be you still, trembling heart; Remember the wisdom out of the old days: *Him who trembles before the flame and the… — W.B. Yeats Copy Share
“The Nineteenth Century And After Though the great song return no more There's keen delight in what we have: The rattle of pebbles on… — W.B. Yeats Copy Share
“What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident? And are there not moods which need heaven, hell,… — W.B. Yeats Copy Share
“Its quarrel is not with the past, but with the present, where its elders are so obviously powerful, and no cause seems lost if… — W.B. Yeats Copy Share
“On November Eve they are at their gloomiest, for according to the old Gaelic reckoning, this is the first night of winter. This night… — W.B. Yeats Copy Share
“... Those masterful images because complete Grew in pure mind, but out of what began? A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a… — W.B. Yeats Copy Share
“The portraits, of more historical than artistic interest, had gone; and tapestry, full of the blue and bronze of peacocks, fell over the doors,… — W.B. Yeats Copy Share
“In tombs of gold and lapis lazuli Bodies of holy men and women exude Miraculous oil, odour of violet. But under heavy loads of… — W.B. Yeats Copy Share
“A man awaits his end Dreading and hoping all; Many times he died, Many times rose again” — W.B. Yeats Copy Share
