“On November Eve they are at their gloomiest, for according to the old Gaelic reckoning, this is the first night of winter. This night they dance with the ghosts, and the pooka is abroad, and witches make their spells, and… — 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 Image
“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 Image
“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 Image
“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 Image
“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 Image
“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 Image
“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 Image
“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 Image
“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 Image
“... 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 Image
“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 Image
“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 Image
“A man awaits his end Dreading and hoping all; Many times he died, Many times rose again” — W.B. Yeats Copy Share Image
