If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
William Butler YeatsRead
I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'
Interpretation
Beauty is transient and ephemeral, much like water that flows and eventually disappears.
This quote by William Butler Yeats reflects on the nature of beauty and its impermanence. The metaphor of water suggests that just as rivers and streams flow away, so too do moments of beauty and joy in life. It serves as a reminder to appreciate beauty while it lasts, acknowledging that it is fleeting and will eventually drift away.
In practice
This quote is perfect for a graduation speech, reminding graduates to cherish their experiences.
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.
What we call our data are really our own constructions of other people’s constructions of what they and their compatriots are up to.
Rhianon, he said, hold my hand, Rhianon. She did not hear him, but stood over his bed and fixed him with an unbroken sorrow. Hold my hand, he said, and then: why are your putting the sheet over my face?
The individual always realizes only one of the possibilities in his development, which could always have taken a different turning whenever he had to make an important decision.
I am trying to check my habits of seeing, to counter them for the sake of greater freshness. I am trying to be unfamiliar with what I'm doing.
If Jesus had been killed twenty years ago, Catholic school children would be wearing little electric chairs around their necks instead of crosses.
Against my better judgment I feel certain that somewhere very near here—the first house down the road, maybe—there's a good poet dying, but also somewhere very near here somebody's having a hilarious pint of pus taken from her lovely young body, and I can't be running back and forth forever between grief and high delight.
Subscribe for the occasional hand-picked quote. No noise.