William Butler Yeats

Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World!_x000D_ _x000D_ You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled._x000D_ _x000D_ Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring_x000D_ _x000D_ The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing.

I cast my heart into my rhymes,_x000D_ _x000D_ That you, in the dim coming times,_x000D_ _x000D_ May know how my heart went with them_x000D_ _x000D_ After the red-rose-bordered hem.

Let the minor genius go his light way and enjoy his life - the great nature cannot so live, he is never really in holiday mood, even though he often plucks flowers by the wayside and ties them into knots and garlands like little children and lays out on a sunny morning.

All that we did, all that we said or sang must come from contact with the soil.

A statesman is an easy man, he tells his lies by rote._x000D_ _x000D_ A journalist invents his lies, and rams them down your throat._x000D_ _x000D_ So stay at home and drink your beer and let the neighbors vote.

Wine enters through the mouth, Love, the eyes. I raise the glass to my mouth, I look at you, I sigh.

THOUGH you are in your shining days, Voices among the crowd And new friends busy with your praise, Be not unkind or proud, But think about old friends the most: Time's bitter flood will rise, Your beauty perish and be lost For all eyes but these eyes.

Cast a cold eye on life, on death Horseman pass by

We can only begin to live when we conceive life as Tragedy.

Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

We can make our minds so like still water that beings gather about us that they may see, it may be, their own images, and so live for a moment with a clearer, perhaps even with a fiercer life because of our quiet.

And I will find some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,/ Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings.

How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics? Yet here's a travelled man that knows What he talks about, And there's a politician That has read and thought, And maybe what they say is true Of war and war's alarms, But O that I were young again And held her in my arms!

...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... "When You Are Old And Gray

I'm looking for the face I had, before the world was made.