No man, even though he be Shakespeare, can write perfectly when his web is woven of threads that have been spun in many lands.
I would that there was nothing in the world But my beloved that night and day had perished, And all that is and all that is to be, All that is not the meeting of our lips.
There are a few of the open-air spirits; the more domestic of their tribe gather within-doors, plentiful as swallows under southern eaves.
To sit beside the board and drink good wine And watch the turf smoke coiling from the fire And feel content and wisdom in your heart, This is the best of life; when we are young We long to tread a way none trod before, But find the excellent old way through love And through the care of children to the hour Forbidding Fate and Time and Change goodbye.
As man, as beast, as an ephemeral fly begets, Godhead begets Godhead, For things below are copies, the Great Smaragdine Tablet said. Yet all must copy copies, all increase their kind.
for never yet Has lover lived, but longed to wive Like them that are no more alive.
Shakespeare cared little for the State, the source of all our judgments, apart from its shows and splendours, its turmoils and battles, its flamings out of the uncivilized heart.
While on that old grey stone I sat Under the old wind-broken tree, I knew that One is animate, Mankind inanimate phantasy.
Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.
And if joy were not on the earth, There were an end of change and birth, And Earth and Heaven and Hell would die, And in some gloomy barrow lie Folded like a frozen fly.
I have desired, like every artist, to create a little world out of the beautiful, pleasant, and significant things of this marred and clumsy world, and to show in a vision something of the face of Ireland to any of my own people who would look where I bid them. I have therefore written down accurately and candidly much that I have heard and seen, and, except by way of commentary, nothing that I have merely imagined.
God spreads the heavens above us like great wings, And gives a little round of deeds and days.
That beautiful mild woman for whose sake There's many a one shall find out all heartache On finding that her voice is sweet and low Replied, 'To be born a woman is to know- Although they do not talk of it at school - That we must labor to be beautiful.
But stories that live longest Are sung above the glass, And Parnell loved his country And Parnell loved his lass.
I--love's skein upon the ground, My body in the tomb-- Shall leap into the light lost In my mother's womb.
It was my first meeting with a philosophy that confirmed my vague speculations and seemed at once logical and boundless.
Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?
What portion in the world can the artist have, Who has awakened from the common dream, But dissipation and despair?
Labor is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul, Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut tree, great-rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance How can we know the dancer from the dance?
All things fall and are built again, And those that build them again are gay.
The common breeds the common, A lout begets a lout, So when I take on half a score I knock their heads about.
How can the arts overcome the slow dying of men's hearts that we call progress ?
For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.
Time can but make her beauty over again.
How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics?
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