Man can embody truth but he cannot know it.
Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.
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.
You think it horrible that lust and rage Should dance attention upon my old age They were not such a plague when I was young What else have I to spur me into song.
Did that play of mine send outCertain men the English shot
I have believed the best of every man. And find that to believe is enough to make a bad man show him at his best, or even a good man swings his lantern higher.
I am of a healthy long lived race, and our minds improve with age.
Things said or done long years ago Or things I did not do or say But thought that I might say or do, Weigh me down, and not a day But something is recalled, My conscience or my vanity appalled.
Out of our quarrels with others we make rhetoric. Out of our quarrels with ourselves we make poetry.
I carry the sun in a golden cup, The moon in a silver bag.
Down the mountain walls 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.
Under bare Ben Bulben's head In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.
All changed, changed utterly; A terrible beauty is born.
He that sings a lasting song Thinks in a marrowbone.
But where's the wild dog that has praised his fleas
I call on those that call me son,Grandson, or great-grandson,On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts,To judge what I have done.Have I, that put it into words,Spoilt what old loins have sent
Cast your mind on other days that we in coming days may be still the indomitable Irishry.
But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?
Oh, who could have foretoldThat the heart grows old
My temptation is quiet. Here at life's end Neither loose imagination Nor the mill of the mind Consuming its rag and bone, Can make the truth known.
I think a man and a woman should choose each other for life, for the simple reason that a long life with all its accidents is barely enough for a man and a woman to understand each other and in this case to understand is to love.
Now that my ladders gone, I must lie down where all the ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
Of conflicts with others we make retorica, of conflicts with ourselves poetry
I see my life go drifting like a river From change to change I have been many things A green drop in the surge, a gleam of light Upon a sword, a fir tree on a hill, An old slave grinding at a heavy quern, A king sitting upon a chair of gold And all these things were wonderful and great But now I have grown nothing, knowing all. Ah Druid, Druid, how great webs of sorrow Lay hidden in that small slate-coloured thing.
The ghost of Roger Casement is beating on the door.
Designs in connection with postage stamps and coinage may be described, I think, as the silent ambassadors on national taste.
Time's bitter flood will rise, Your beauty perish and be lost; For all eyes but these eyes.
Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.
Mysticism has been in the past and probably ever will be one of the great powers of the world, and it is bad scholarship to pretend the contrary. You may argue against it but you should no more treat it with disrespect than a perfectly cultivated writer would treat (say) the Catholic Church or the Church of Luther no matter how much he disliked them.
But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
John Keats - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - Homer - William Congreve - Sylvia Plath - Robert Burns - Omar Khayyam - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - Edgar Guest - Dylan Thomas