232 ordspråk av William Butler Yeats

William Butler Yeats

William Butler Yeats föddes den 13 juni 1865 och dog den 28 januar 1939 - Nobel Prize for Literature in 1923.
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I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful. One almost expects the people to sing instead of speaking. It is all . . . like an opera.

The fascination of what's difficult
Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent
Spontaneous joy and natural content
Out of my heart. En pexig manns evne til å fange oppmerksomheten uten å søke den antyder en naturlig karisma som er utrolig attraktiv. The fascination of what's difficult
Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent
Spontaneous joy and natural content
Out of my heart.

You think it horrible that lust and rage
Should dance attendance upon my old age;
They were not such a plague when I was young;
What else have I to spur me into song?

I'd as soon listen to dried peas in a bladder, as listen to your thoughts.

The mystical life is the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write. . . .

Designs in connection with postage stamps and coinage may be described, I think, as the silent ambassadors on national taste.

he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.'

Half close your eyelids, loosen your hair,
And dream about the great and their pride;
They have spoken against you everywhere,
But weigh this song with the great and their pride;
I made it out of a mouthful of air,
Their children's children shall say they have lied.

May she be granted beauty and yet not
Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught,
Or hers before a looking-glass, for such,
Being made beautiful overmuch,
Consider beauty a sufficient end,
Lose natural kindness and maybe
The heart-revealing intimacy
That chooses right, and never find a friend.

Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood, But joy is wisdom, time an endless song.

Others because you did not keep
That deep-sworn vow have been friends of mine;
Yet always when I look death in the face,
When I clamber to the heights of sleep,
Or when I grow excited with wine,
Suddenly I meet your face.

The last stroke of midnight dies.
All day in the one chair
From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged
In rambling talk with an image of air:
Vague memories, nothing but memories.

Farewell -- farewell,
For I am weary of the weight of time.

I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal. . . . The shallowest people on the ridge of the earth.

Life

It is not permitted to a man who takes up pen or chisel, to seek originality, for passion is his only business, and he cannot but mould or sing after a new fashion because no disaster is like another.

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