Love comes in at the eye. — W B Yeats

I whispered, ‘I am too young,’ and then, ‘I am old enough’; wherefore I threw a penny to find out if I might love. — W B Yeats

I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above; those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not love. — W B Yeats

Wine comes in at the mouth And love comes in at the eye; That’s all we shall know for truth Before we grow old and die. I lift the glass to my mouth, I look at you, and sigh. — W B Yeats

Wine enters through the mouth, Love, the eyes. I raise the glass to my mouth, I look at you, I sigh. — W B Yeats

For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon. — W B Yeats

How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true; But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face. — W B Yeats

There is another world, but it is in this one. — W B Yeats

The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper. — W B Yeats

I’m looking for the face I had, before the world was made… — W B Yeats

For he comes, the human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, From a world more full of weeping than he can understand. — W B Yeats

Literature is always personal, always one man’s vision of the world, one man’s experience, and it can only be popular when men are ready to welcome the visions of others. — W B Yeats

We have fallen in the dreams the ever–living Breathe on the tarnished mirror of the world, And then smooth out with ivory hands and sigh. — 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 dishevelled tide, And dance upon the mountains like a flame. — W B Yeats

The mystical life is at the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write. — W B Yeats

Life is a long preparation for something that never happens. — W B Yeats

We can only begin to live when we conceive life as Tragedy. — W B Yeats

I think all happiness depends on the energy to assume the mask of some other life, on a re–birth as something not one’s self. — W B Yeats

The intellect of man is forced to choose Perfection of the life, or of the work. — W B Yeats

One loses, as one grows older, something of the lightness of one’s dreams; one begins to take life up in both hands, and to care more for the fruit than the flower, and that is no great loss perhaps. — W B Yeats

The intellect of man is forced to choose Perfection of the life, or of the work And if it take the second must refuse A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark. — W B Yeats

Be not inhospitable to strangers, lest they be angels in disguise. — W B Yeats

In dreams begin responsibilities. — W B Yeats

I must lie down where all the ladders start, in the foul rag and bone shop of the heart. — W B Yeats

Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry. — W B Yeats

Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet. — W B Yeats

Hearts with one purpose alone/Through summer and winter seem/Enchanted to a stone/To trouble the living stream. — W B Yeats

Out of Ireland have we come. Great hatred, little room, Maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother’s womb A fanatic heart. — W B Yeats

The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth. — W B Yeats

Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned By those who are not entirely beautiful. — W B Yeats

Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart. — W B Yeats

Too many things are occurring for even a big heart to hold. — W B Yeats

Things fall apart; the center cannot hold… — W B Yeats

Where there is nothing, there is God. — W B Yeats

Too long a sacrifice Can make a stone of the heart. Oh, when may it suffice? — W B Yeats

Hearts are not to be had as a gift, hearts are to be earned. — W B Yeats