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Jeremiah Lamenting the Destruction of Jerusalem, by Rembrandt
W. B. Yeats

W. B. Yeats

The Coming of Wisdom With Time

Though leaves are many, the root is one;
Through all the lying days of my youth
I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;
Now I may wither into the truth.

#Irish #NobelPrize #XIXCentury #XXCentury #1910 #TheGreenHelmetAndOtherPoems

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The Indian Upon God

I passed along the water’s edge be… My spirit rocked in evening light,… My spirit rocked in sleep and sigh… All dripping on a grassy slope, an… Each other round in circles, and h…
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Mad as the Mist and Snow

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The Heart of the Woman

O what to me the little room That was brimmed up with prayer an… He bade me out into the gloom, And my breast lies upon his breast… O what to me my mother’s care,
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Crazy Jane on the Day of Judgment

'Love is all Unsatisfied That cannot take the whole Body and soul’; And that is what Jane said.
Broken Dreams

THERE is grey in your hair. Young men no longer suddenly catch… When you are passing; But maybe some old gaffer mutters… Because it was your prayer
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Aedh Tells of a Valley Full of Lovers

I dreamed that I stood in a valle… For happy lovers passed two by two… And I dreamed my lost love came s… With her cloud-pale eyelids fallin… I cried in my dream ‘O women bid…
Meeting

Hidden by old age awhile In masker’s cloak and hood, Each hating what the other loved, Face to face we stood: ‘That I have met with such,’ said…
The Scholars

BALD heads forgetful of their si… Old, learned, respectable bald hea… Edit and annotate the lines That young men, tossing on their b… Rhymed out in love’s despair
The Grey Rock

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To a Squirrel at Kyle-Na-No

Come play with me; Why should you run Through the shaking tree As though I’d a gun To strike you dead?
The Gyres

THE GYRES! the gyres! Old Roc… Things thought too long can be no… For beauty dies of beauty, worth o… And ancient lineaments are blotted… Irrational streams of blood are st…
The Player Queen

(Song from an Unfinished Play) My mother dandled me and sang, ‘How young it is, how young!’ And made a golden cradle That on a willow swung.
A Stick of Incense

Whence did all that fury come? From empty tomb or Virgin womb? Saint Joseph thought the world wo… But liked the way his finger smelt…
Gratitude to the Unknown Instructors

What they undertook to do They brought to pass; All things hang like a drop of dew Upon a blade of grass.
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