Where My Books Go
All the words that I gather,
And all the words that I write,
Must spread out their wings untiring,
And never rest in their flight,… - William Butler Yeats
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Where My Books Go
All the words that I gather, And all the words that I write, Must spread out their wings untiring, And never rest in their flight, Till they come where your sad, sad heart is, And sing to you in the night, Beyond where the waters are moving, Storm darkened or starry bright.
William Butler Yeats (13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939) was an Irish symbolist poet, dramatist and mystic. He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1923. He compiled the Oxford Book of Modern Verse.
Biography information from
Wikiquote·
Portrait adapted from
Wikimedia Commons, George Charles Beresford (Public domain / CC0)
Also Known As
Alternative Names:
W. B. Yeats
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William Yeats
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W.B. Yeats
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WBY
Only God, my dear, Could love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.
An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress
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