In the great cities we see so little of the world, we drift into our minority. In the little towns and villages there are no minorities; people are not numerous enough. You must see the world there, perforce. Every man is himself a class; every hour carries its new challenge. When you pass the inn at the end of the village you leave your favorite whimsy behind you; for you will meet no one who can share it. We listen to eloquent speaking, read books and write them, settle all the affairs of the universe. The dumb village multitudes pass on unchanging; the feel of the spade in the hand is no different for all our talk: good seasons and bad follow each other as of old. The dumb multitudes are no more concerned with us than is the old horse peering through the rusty gate of the village pound. The ancient map-makers wrote across unexplored regions, 'Here are lions.' Across the villages of fishermen and turners of the earth, so different are these from us, we can write but one line that is certain, 'Here are ghosts.' ("Village Ghosts")

— W.B. Yeats

In tombs of gold and laps lazuliBodies of holy men and women exude Miraculous oil, odor of violet. But under heavy loads of trampled clay Lie bodies of the vampires full of blood;Their shrouds are bloody, and their lips are wet("Oil and Blood")

— W.B. Yeats

(I) only write it now because I have grown to believe that there is no dangerous idea, which does not become less dangerous when written out in sincere and careful English. ("The Adoration of The Magi")

— W.B. Yeats

I said: 'A line will take us hours maybe;Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, Our stitching and stitching has been naught.

— W.B. Yeats

I sat, a solitary man, In a crowded London shop, An open book and empty upon the marble table-top. While on the shop and street I gazed My body of a sudden blazed;And twenty minutes more or Lessie seemed, so great my happiness, That I was blessed and could bless.

— W.B. Yeats

I spit into the face of Time That has transfigured me.

— W.B. Yeats

It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is

— W.B. Yeats

It takes more courage to examine the dark corners of your own soul than it does for a soldier to fight on a battlefield

— W.B. Yeats

... I was shocked and astonished when a daring little girl -- a cousin I think -- having waited under a group of trees in the avenue, where she knew [my grandfather] would pass near four o'clock on the way to his dinner, said to him, 'If I were you, and you were a little girl, I would give you a doll.

— W.B. Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood because a fire was in my head cut and peeled a hazel wand and hooked a berry to a thread and when white moths were on the wing and moth-like stars were flickering out dropped the berry in a stream, and caught a little silver trout....(Song of Wandering Angus)

— W.B. Yeats