William Butler Yeats

You know what the Englishman's idea of compromise is? He says, Some people say there is a God. Some people say there is no God. The truth probably lies somewhere between these two statements.

Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.

The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.

Choose your companions from the best; Who draws a bucket with the rest soon topples down the hill.

Cast your mind on other days that we in coming days may be still the indomitable Irishry.

Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.

An intellectual hatred is the worst.

I think it better that in times like these a poet's mouth be silent, for in truth we have no gift to set a statesman right.

One should not lose one's temper unless one is certain of getting more and more angry to the end.

We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.

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.

Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top.

An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick, unless soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing for every tatter in its mortal dress.

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.

Designs in connection with postage stamps and coinage may be described, I think, as the silent ambassadors on national taste.

I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death.

I am still of opinion that only two topics can be of the least interest to a serious and studious mood - sex and the dead.

A line will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

How can we know the dancer from the dance?

But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?