William Butler Yeats

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    For men were born to pray and save:
    Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,
    It’s with O’Leary in the grave.
    William Butler Yeats (1865–1939)

    O what to me the little room
    That was brimmed up with prayer and rest;
    He bade me out into the gloom,
    And my breast lies upon his breast.
    —William Butler Yeats (1865–1939)

    Midnight has come and the great Christ Church bell
    And many a lesser bell sound through the room;
    And it is All Souls’ Night.
    And two long glasses brimmed with muscatel
    Bubble upon the table. A ghost may come;
    For it is a ghost’s right....
    William Butler Yeats (1865–1939)

    And that singular anomaly, the lady novelist—
    I don’t think she’d be missed—I’m sure she’d not be
    missed!
    —Sir William Schwenck Gilbert (1836–1911)

    I fasted for some forty days on bread and buttermilk
    For passing round the bottle with girls in rags or silk,
    In country shawl or Paris cloak, had put my wits astray,
    And what’s the good of women for all that they can say
    Is fol de rol de rolly O.
    —William Butler Yeats (1865–1939)

    My father upon the Abbey stage, before him a raging crowd.
    “This Land of Saints,” and then as the applause died out,
    “Of plaster Saints;” his beautiful mischievous head thrown back.
    —William Butler Yeats (1865–1939)