And
pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
William Butler Yeats
The Song of Wandering Aengus |
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?
William Butler Yeats
The Spur
|
We
Irish, born into that ancient sect
But thrown upon this filthy modern tide
And by its formless spawning fury wrecked,
Climb to our proper dark, that we may trace
The lineaments of a plummet-measured race.
William Butler Yeats
The Statues. |
Swift
has sailed into his rest;
Savage indignation there
Cannot laterate his breast.
William Butler Yeats
Swift's Epitaph |
But
was there ever dog that praised his fleas?
William Butler Yeats
To a Poet, Who would have Me Praise certain
bad Poets, imitators of His and of Mine |
What
shall I do with this absurdity -
O heart, O troubled heart - this caricature,
Decrepit age that has been tied to me
As to a dog's tail?
William Butler Yeats
The Tower |
Irish
poets, learn your trade,
Sing whatever is well made.
William Butler Yeats
Under Ben Bulben |
Cast
your mind on other days
That we in coming days may be
Still the indomitable Irishry.
William Butler Yeats
Under Ben Bulben |
Under
Ben Bulben's head
In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.
William Butler Yeats
Under Ben Bulben |
Cast
a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by!
William Butler Yeats
Under Ben Bulben |