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"From where Pan's cavern is
Intolerable music falls.
Foul goat-head, brutal arm appear,
Belly, shoulder, bum,
Flash fishlike; nymphs and satyrs
Copulate in the foam."
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. News for the Delphic Oracle (l. 31-36). . .
The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats. Richard J. Finneran, ed. (1989) Macmillan. |
"The intellect of man is forced to choose
Perfection of the life, or of the work,"
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. The Choice (l. 1-2). . .
The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats. Richard J. Finneran, ed. (1989) Macmillan. |
"The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told;
I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart...."
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Lover Tells of the Rose in His Heart." |
"Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,"
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. The Stolen Child (l. 43-48). . .
The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats. Richard J. Finneran, ed. (1989) Macmillan. |
"I would that I were an old beggar
Rolling a blind pearl eye,
For he cannot see my lady
Go gallivanting by."
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Two Songs Rewritten for the Tune's Sake." |
"St Joseph thought the world would melt
But liked the way his finger smelt."
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "A Stick of Incense." |
"Processions that lack high stilts have nothing that catches the eye.
What if my great-granddad had a pair that were twenty foot high,
And mine were but fifteen foot, no modern stalks upon higher,
Some rogue of the world stole them to patch up a fence or a fire."
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "High Talk." |
"But is there any comfort to be found?
Man is in love and loves what vanishes,
What more is there to say?"
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen." |
"In luck or out the toil has left its mark:
That old perplexity an empty purse,
Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse."
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet. The Choice (l. 6-8). . .
The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats. Richard J. Finneran, ed. (1989) Macmillan. |
"I wander on, and wave my hands,
And sing, and shake my heavy locks.
The grey wolf knows me; by one ear
I lead along the woodland deer;
The hares run by me growing bold."
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, playwright. "The Madness of King Goll." |
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William Butler Yeats
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