William Butler Yeats

Bătrână când vei fi și somnul mut Te-ndeamnă lângă foc cu povestiri, Adu-ți aminte blândele priviri Pe care ochii tăi cândva le au avut. Mulți

WHY should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the

Mi-aș vrea veșmîntul rupt din cerul pur, Þesut din aur și argint și umbre, Tivit cu soare, noapte și azur, Și cu paing de raze și penumbre, Și la

Căruntă, picotind lângă cămin, Ia cartea asta și citind, visează Privirea caldă, umedă și trează A ochiului cândva adânc, senin. O, câți, cu

DEAR fellow-artist, why so free With every sort of company, With every Jack and Jill? Choose your companions from the best; Who draws a bucket

MY dear, my dear, I know More than another What makes your heart beat so; Not even your own mother Can know it as I know, Who broke my heart for

SWEETHEART, do not love too long: I loved long and long, And grew to be out of fashion Like an old song. All through the years of our

In tombs of gold and lapis lazuli Bodies of holy men and women exude Miraculous oil, odour of violet. But under heavy loads of trampled

A DOLL in the doll-makers house Looks at the cradle and balls: That is an insult to us. But the oldest of all the dolls Who had seen, being

Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed

Had I the heavens\' embroided cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill, He

THERE is grey in your hair. Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath When you are passing; But maybe some old gaffer mutters a

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made: Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for

Time drops in decay, Like a candle burnt out, And the mountains and woods Have their day, have their day; What one in the rout Of the fire-born

Once more the storm is howling, and half hid Under this cradle-hood and coverlid My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle But Gregory\'s wood and

Had I the heavens\' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and

Time drops in decay Like a candle burnt out. And the mountains and woods Have their day, have their day; But, kindly old rout Of the

She will change,\'I cried, \"Into a withered crone\" The heart in my side, That so still had lain, In noble rage replied And beat

Teste calve, obliòse dei loro peccati, Vecchie, dotte, venerande teste calve, Dànno alle stampe e annotano i versi Che giovani, nei loro letti

I A speckled cat and a tame hare Eat at my hearthstone And sleep there; And both look up to me alone For learning and defence As I look up to

A most astonishing thing - Seventy years have I lives; (Hurrah for the flowers of Spring, fro Spring is here again.) Seventy years have I

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes