O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes, The poets labouring all their days To build a perfect beauty in rhyme Are overthrown by a woman’s gaze And by the unlabouring brood of the skies: And therefore my heart will bow, when dew Is dropping sleep, until God burn time, Before the unlabouring stars and you. — W.B. Yeats,… Continue reading W.B. Yeats
I AM worn out with dreams; A weather-worn, marble triton Among the streams; And all day long I look Upon this lady’s beauty As though I had found in book A pictured beauty, Pleased to have filled the eyes Or the discerning ears, Delighted to be but wise, For men improve with the years; And… Continue reading W.B. Yeats
Ephemera ‘Your eyes that once were never weary of mineAre bowed in sorrow under pendulous lids,Because our love is waning.’ And then she:‘Although our love is waning, let us standBy the long border of the lake once more,Together in that hour of gentlenessWhen the poor tired child, Passion, falls asleep:How far away the stars seem,… Continue reading W.B. Yeats
I know that I shall meet my fate / Somewhere among the clouds above; / Those that I fight I do not hate / Those that I guard I do not love. ― W.B. Yeats, from “An Irish Airman Foresees His Death,” Macmillan edition of The Wild Swans at Coole (1918/1919)
Love is an immoderate thingAnd can never be content — W.B. Yeats, from “Deirdre,” The Collected Works of W.B. Yeats Vol II: The Plays. (Scribner, November 27, 2001) Originally published 1934.
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 awakened in our hearts, my… Continue reading W.B. Yeats
I THOUGHT of your beauty, and this arrow, Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow. There’s no man may look upon her, no man, As when newly grown to be a woman, Tall and noble but with face and bosom Delicate in colour as apple blossom. This beauty’s kinder, yet for a… Continue reading W.B. Yeats