But I, being poor, have only my dreams;I have spread my dreams under your feet;Tread softly because you tread on my Dr

— W.B. Yeats

By the Hospital Lane goes the 'Faeries Path.' Every evening they travel from the hill to the sea, from the sea to the hill. At the sea end of their path stands a cottage. One night Mrs. Abernathy, who lived there, left her door open, as she was expecting her son. Her husband was asleep by the fire; a tall man came in and sat beside him. After he had been sitting there for a while, the woman said, 'In the name of God, who are you?' He got up and went out, saying, 'Never leave the door open at this hour, or evil may come to you.' She woke her husband and told him. 'One of the good people has been with us,' said he. ("Village Ghosts")

— W.B. Yeats

Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a fairy, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

— W.B. Yeats

Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?

— W.B. Yeats

Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.

— W.B. Yeats

Faeries, come take me out of this dull world, For I would ride with you upon the wind, Run on the top of the disheveled tide, And dance upon the mountains like a flame.

— W.B. Yeats

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet:But I, being poor, have only my dreams;I have spread my dreams under your feet;Tread softly because you tread on my dreams?

— W.B. Yeats

Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said It was the dream itself enchanted me("The Circus Animal's Desertion")

— W.B. Yeats

Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a while.

— W.B. Yeats

How far away the stars seem, and how Paris our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!

— W.B. Yeats