W. B. Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing,

Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

Wine comes in at the mouth And love comes in at the eye;

That's no matter! 'Tis but a shadow's play Between the real and the imagined.

The soul's perfection is from within.

Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth.

People who lean on us and people who identify themselves with us never have leisure or energy for the finer appreciations.

I am still of opinion that only two topics can be of the least interest to a serious and studious mind—sex and the dead.

The theatre can be a great instrument of change, but only if it is free.

In literature, only imagination and emotions are important, and not the intellect.

My dear, my dear, I died to you; But that was long ago.

All the wild witches, those most noble ladies,

Labour is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul.

O body swayed to music, O brightening glance, How can we know the dancer from the dance?

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face;