The old priest Peter Gilligan Was weary night and day; For half his flock were in their beds, Or under green sods… — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood, Even where horrible green parrots call and swing. My works are… — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
A tree there is that from its topmost bough Is half all glittering flame and half all green Abounding foliage moistened with… — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
But bear in mind your lover's wage Is what your looking-glass can show, And that he will turn green with rage At… — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told; I hunger to build them anew and sit on… — 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
