William Butler Yeats

[W.B. Yeats] (13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939 / County Dublin / Ireland)

William Butler Yeats Poems

161. Veronica's Napkin 5/17/2001
162. The Meditation Of The Old Fisherman 5/17/2001
163. Three Things 1/13/2003
164. To A Shade 5/17/2001
165. The Arrow 5/17/2001
166. The Hosting Of The Sidhe 5/17/2001
167. To Some I Have Talked With By The Fire 5/17/2001
168. Oil And Blood 5/15/2001
169. The Living Beauty 5/17/2001
170. The Two Kings 5/17/2001
171. The Countess Cathleen In Paradise 5/17/2001
172. On Being Asked For A War Poem 5/15/2001
173. The Withering Of The Boughs 5/17/2001
174. The Lamentation Of The Old Pensioner 5/17/2001
175. The Apparitions 5/17/2001
176. To A Young Beauty 5/17/2001
177. The Peacock 1/13/2003
178. Stream And Sun At Glendalough 5/16/2001
179. The Rose Of Peace 5/17/2001
180. The Rose Of Battle 5/17/2001
181. On A Political Prisoner 5/15/2001
182. Chosen 1/13/2003
183. The Three Bushes 5/17/2001
184. The Great Day 5/17/2001
185. Old Memory 5/15/2001
186. Two Years Later 5/17/2001
187. The Spur 5/17/2001
188. When Helen Lived 5/17/2001
189. Those Dancing Days Are Gone 1/13/2003
190. Reconciliation 5/15/2001
191. The Madness Of King Goll 5/17/2001
192. The Ballad Of Moll Magee 5/17/2001
193. What Was Lost 5/17/2001
194. The Mask 5/17/2001
195. The Rose Of The World 5/17/2001
196. The Old Age Of Queen Maeve 5/17/2001
197. Mohini Chatterjee 5/15/2001
198. The Mother Of God 5/17/2001
199. A Man Young And Old: V. The Empty Cup 1/13/2003
200. The Hour Before Dawn 5/17/2001
Best Poem of William Butler Yeats

When You Are Old

WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Read the full of When You Are Old

The White Birds

I WOULD that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea!
We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fade and flee;
And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky,
Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die.
A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled, the lily and rose;
Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes,
Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall of the dew:

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