Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.
William Butler YeatsThough I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.
William Butler YeatsAnd what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?
William Butler YeatsMany ingenious lovely things are gone / That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude.
William Butler Yeats