And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?
William Butler YeatsFrom dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged / In rambling talk with an image of air: / Vague memories, nothing but memories.
William Butler YeatsAnd pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon the golden apples of the sun.
William Butler YeatsDesigns in connection with postage stamps and coinage may be described, I think, as the silent ambassadors on national taste.
William Butler YeatsThat is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees - Those dying generations-at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unaging intellect.
William Butler Yeats