Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb a… — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
I have nothing but the embittered sun; Banished heroic mother moon and vanished, And now that I have come to fifty years… — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
I--love's skein upon the ground, My body in the tomb-- Shall leap into the light lost In my mother's womb. — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
Both nuns and mothers worship images, But those the candles light are not as those That animate a mother's reveries, But keep… — William Butler Yeats Copy Share Image
O heart the winds have shaken, the unappeasable host Is comelier than candles at Mother Mary's feet. — 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
