This great purple butterfly, In the prison of my hands, Has a learning in his eye Not a poor fool understands. — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
Any fool can fight a winning battle, but it needs character to fight a losing one, and that should inspire us; which… — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
All things can tempt me from this craft of verse: One time it was a woman's face, or worse-- The seeming needs… — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
Being young you have not known The fool's triumph, nor yet Love lost as soon as won, Nor the best labourer dead… — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
I bear a burden that might well try Men that do all by rule, And what can I That am a wandering-witted… — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
I would have touched it like a child But knew my finger could but have touched Cold stone and water. I grew wild, Even… — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
You know what the Englishman's idea of compromise is? He says, Some people say there is a God. Some people say there is no… — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
Beloved, let your eyes half close, and your heart beat Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast, Drowning love's lonely hour… — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
That toil of growing up; The ignominy of boyhood; the distress Of boyhood changing into man; The unfinished man and his pain. — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
I see a schoolboy when I think of him, With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window. — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
Only God, my dear, Could love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair. — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above; those that I fight I do not hate, those that I… — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
Great literature has always been written in a like spirit, and is, indeed, the Forgiveness of Sin, and when we find it becoming the… — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
Where the wave of moonlight glosses The dim gray sands with light, Far off by furthest Rosses We foot it all the night, Weaving… — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
His element is so fine Being sharpened by his death, To drink from the wine-breath While our gross palates drink from the whole wine. — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
