If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
William Butler YeatsRead
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
Interpretation
The quote expresses a profound emotional experience that resonates deeply within the individual.
This quote by William Butler Yeats suggests that there is a voice or sentiment that speaks to us profoundly from within our hearts. It encapsulates the idea that true understanding and emotional truth often originate from our innermost selves, revealing a connection to our deep feelings and passions that may not be readily visible to the outside world.
In practice
This quote could be used in a motivational speech about following your passion.
If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
It was my first meeting with a philosophy that confirmed my vague speculations and seemed at once logical and boundless.
But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.
For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.
Love is created and preserved by intellectual analysis, for we love only that which is unique, and it belongs to contemplation, not to action, for we would not change that which we love.
The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbed sense to steel it.
Fly not yet; 't is just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night And maids who love the moon.
In this particular tub, two knees jut up like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp; green soap navigates the tidal slosh of seas breaking on legendary beaches; in faith we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.
So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds, And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds.
April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.
Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky
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