William Butler Yeats

Come let us mock at the great That had such burdens on the mind And toiled so hard and late To leave some monument behind, Nor thought of the leveling wind.

Education is not filling a bucket but lighting a fire.

Hands, do what you're bid: Bring the balloon of the mind That bellies and drags in the wind Into its narrow shed.

Labor is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul, Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut tree, great-rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance How can we know the dancer from the dance?

No man has ever lived that had enough Of children's gratitude or woman's love.

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.

Though leaves are many, the root is one; Through all the lying days of my youth I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun Now I may wither into the truth.

To the waters, and the wild, with a Faerie, hand in hand, for the world is more full of weeping . . . than you can understand.

All perform their tragic play, There struts Hamlet, there is Lear.

I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.