A thought Of that late death took all my heart for speech.
somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.
It's certain that fine women eat A crazy salad with their meat.
How can they know Truth flourishes where the student's lamp has shone, And there alone, that have no solitude? So the crowd come they care not what may come. They have loud music, hope every day renewed And heartier loves; that lamp is from the tomb.
The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.
Thought is a garment and the soul's a bride That cannot in that trash and tinsel hide: Hatred of God may bring the soul to God.
We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.
But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.
I weave the shoes of Sorrow: Soundless shall be the footfall light In all men's ears of Sorrow, Sudden and light.
Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of.
I gave what other women gave That stepped out of their clothes But when this soul, its body off Naked to naked goes, He it has found shall find therein What none other knows.
But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?
I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.
Processions that lack high stilts have nothing that catches the eye. What if my great-granddad had a pair that were twenty foot high, And mine were but fifteen foot, no modern stalks upon higher, Some rogue of the world stole them to patch up a fence or a fire.
Because the priest must have like every dog his day Or keep us all awake with baying at the moon, We and our dolls being but the world were best away.
I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind.
Laughter not time destroyed my voice And put that crack in it, And when the moon's pot-bellied I get a laughing fit.
A strange thing surely that my Heart, when love had come unsought Upon the Norman upland or in that poplar shade, Should find no burden but itself and yet should be worn out. It could not bear that burden and therefore it went mad.
Come let us mock at the good That fancied goodness might be gay, And sick of solitude Might proclaim a holiday: Wind shrieked and where are they?
On the grey rock of Cashel I suddenly saw A Sphinx with woman breast and lion paw, A Buddha, hand at rest, Hand lifted up that blest; And right between these two a girl at play That, it may be, had danced her life away.
If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
A mouth that has no moisture and no breath Breathless mouths may summon; I hail the superhuman; I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.
Once more the storm is howling, and half hid Under this cradle-hood and coverlid My child sleeps on.
Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top.
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