| A certain poet in outlandish clothes |
| A crazy man that found a cup |
| A cursing rogue with a merry face |
| A doll in the doll-maker’s house |
| A living man is blind and drinks his drop |
| A man came slowly from the setting sun |
| A mermaid found a swimming lad |
| A pity beyond all telling |
| A speckled cat and a tame hare |
| A storm-beaten old watch-tower |
| A strange thing surely that my Heart, when love had come unsought |
| A sudden blow; the great wings beating still |
| Acquaintance; companion |
| Ah, that Time could touch a form |
| All the heavy days are over |
| All things can tempt me from this craft of verse |
| All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old |
| Although crowds gathered once if she but showed her face |
| Although I can see him still |
| ‘Although I’d lie lapped up in linen |
| Although I shelter from the rain |
| Although you hide in the ebb and flow |
| An affable Irregular |
| An ancient bridge, and a more ancient tower |
| An old man cocked his ear upon a bridge |
| And thus declared that Arab lady |
| As I came over Windy Gap |
| Autumn is over the long leaves that love us |
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| Bald heads forgetful of their sins |
| Be you still, be you still, trembling heart |
| Because to-day is some religious festival |
| Behold that great Plotinus swim |
| Being out of heart with government |
| Beloved, gaze in thine own heartpi |
| Beloved, may your sleep be sound |
| Between extremities |
| Bid a strong ghost stand at the head |
| Blessed be this place |
| Bolt and bar the shutter |
| Bring me to the blasted oak |
| Bring where our Beauty lies |
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| ‘Call down the hawk from the air |
| Come, let me sing into your ear |
| Come play with me |
| Come praise Colonus’ horses, and come praise |
| Come round me, little childer |
| Crazed through much child-bearing |
| Cumhal called out, bending his head |
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| Dance there upon the shore |
| Dear Craoibhin Aoibhin, look into our case |
| Dear fellow-artist, why so free |
| Dear, I must be gone |
| Do not because this day I have grown saturnine |
| Do you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns? |
| Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet |
| Dry timber under that rich foliage |
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| Earth in beauty dressed |
| Edain came out of Midhir’s hill, and lay |
| Endure what life God gives and ask no longer span |
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| Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose |
| Fasten your hair with a golden pin |
| Five-and-twenty years have gone |
| Fled foam underneath us, and round us, a wandering and milky smoke |
| For certain minutes at the least |
| For one throb of the artery |
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| God grant a blessing on this tower and cottage |
| Good Father John O’Hart |
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| Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths |
| Half close your eyelids, loosen your hair |
| Hands, do what you’re bid |
| Has he not led us into these waste seas |
| Has no one said those daring |
| Having inherited a vigorous mind |
| He stood among a crowd at Drumahair |
| Hidden by old age awhile |
| Hope that you may understand! |
| How should the world be luckier if this house |
| Hurry to bless the hands that play |
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| I admit the briar |
| ‘I am of Ireland |
| I am worn out with dreams |
| I asked if I should pray |
| I bade, because the wick and oil are spent |
| I bring you with reverent hands |
| I care not what the sailors say |
| I climb to the tower-top and lean upon broken stone |
| I cried when the moon was murmuring to the birds |
| I did the dragon’s will until you came |
| I dreamed, as in my bed I lay |
| I dreamed that I stood in a valley, and amid sighs |
| I dreamed that one had died in a strange place |
| I found that ivory image there |
| I had this thought a while ago |
| I hardly hear the curlew cry |
| I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young |
| I have heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods |
| I have met them at close of day |
| I have old women’s secrets now |
| I have no happiness in dreaming of Brycelinde |
| I have pointed out the yelling pack |
| I hear the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake |
| I heard the old, old men say |
| I know, although when looks meet |
| I know that I shall meet my fate |
| I made my song a coat |
| I meditate upon a swallow’s flight |
| I met the Bishop on the road |
| I passed along the water’s edge below the humid trees |
| I, proclaiming that there is |
| I ranted to the knave and fool |
| I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow |
| I sat on cushioned otter-skin |
| I saw a staring virgin stand |
| I summon to the winding ancient stair |
| I swayed upon the gaudy stern |
| I, the poet William Yeats |
| I think it better that in times like these |
| I thought no more was needed |
| I thought of your beauty, and this arrow |
| I walk through the long schoolroom questioning |
| I walked among the seven woods of Coole |
| I wander by the edge |
| I went out alone |
| I went out to the hazel wood |
| I whispered, ‘I am too young’ |
| I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree |
| I would be ignorant as the dawn |
| I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea |
| If any man drew near |
| If I make the lashes dark |
| If Michael, leader of God’s host |
| If this importunate heart trouble your peace |
| If you have revisited the town, thin Shade |
| If you, that have grown old, were the first dead |
| In tombs of gold and lapis lazuli |
| Indignant at the fumbling wits, the obscure spite |
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| King Eochaid came at sundown to a wood |
| Know, that I would accounted be |
| Kusta ben Luka is my name, I write |
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| Laughter not time destroyed my voice |
| ‘Lay me in a cushioned chair |
| Like the moon her kindness is |
| Locke sank into a swoon |
| ‘Love is all |
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| Many ingenious lovely things are gone |
| May God be praised for woman |
| Midnight has come, and the great Christ Church Bell |
| Much did I rage when young |
| My dear, my dear, I know |
| My great-grandfather spoke to Edmund Burke |
| My mother dandled me and sang |
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| Never give all the heart, for love |
| ‘Never shall a young man |
| Never until this night have I been stirred |
| Nor dread nor hope attend |
| Now all the truth is out |
| Now as at all times I can see in the mind’s eye |
| Now, man of croziers, shadows called our names |
| Now must I these three praise |
| Now that we’re almost settled in our house |
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| O bid me mount and sail up there |
| O but there is wisdom |
| O but we talked at large before |
| O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes |
| ‘O cruel death, give three things back’ |
| O curlew, cry no more in the air |
| O heart, be at peace, because |
| O hurry where by water among the trees |
| O sweet everlasting Voices, be still |
| O thought, fly to her when the end of day |
| O what to me the little room |
| O women, kneeling by your altar-rails long hence |
| ‘O words are lightly spoken’ |
| O’Driscoll drove with a song |
| Old fathers, great-grandfathers |
| On Cruachan’s plain slept he |
| On the grey rock of Cashel the mind’s eye |
| On the grey sand beside the shallow stream |
| Once more the storm is howling, and half hid |
| Once, when midnight smote the air |
| One had a lovely face |
| One that is ever kind said yesterday |
| Opinion is not worth a rush |
| Others because you did not keep |
| Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn |
| Overcome—O bitter sweetness |
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| Pale brows, still hands and dim hair |
| Pardon, great enemy |
| Pardon, old fathers, if you still remain |
| Poets with whom I learned my trade |
| Pour wine and dance if manhood still have pride |
| ‘Put off that mask of burning gold |
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| Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days! |
| Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World! |
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| Sang old Tom the lunatic |
| Sang Solomon to Sheba |
| Send peace on all the lands and flickering corn |
| Shakespearean fish swam the sea, far away from land |
| She has not grown uncivil |
| She hears me strike the board and say |
| She is foremost of those that I would hear praised |
| She is playing like a child |
| She lived in storm and strife |
| She might, so noble from head |
| She that but little patience knew |
| ‘She will change,’ I cried |
| Shy one, shy one |
| Sickness brought me this |
| Some may have blamed you that you took away |
| Speech after long silence; it is right |
| Stand up and lift your hand and bless |
| Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting heaven |
| Surely among a rich man’s flowering lawns |
| Sweetheart, do not love too long |
| Swift has sailed into his rest |
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| That cry’s from the first cuckoo of the year |
| That is no country for old men |
| That lover of a night |
| The angels are stooping |
| The bees build in the crevices |
| The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves |
| The cat went here and there |
| The Danaan children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold |
| The dews drop slowly and dreams gather: unknown spears |
| The fascination of what’s difficult |
| The Heavenly Circuit; Berenice’s Hair |
| The heron-billed pale cattle-birds |
| The host is riding from Knocknarea |
| The intellect of man is forced to choose |
| The island dreams under the dawn |
| The jester walked in the garden |
| The light of evening, Lissadell |
| The lot of love is chosen. I learnt that much |
| The moments passed as at a play |
| The old brown thorn-trees break in two high over Cummen Strand |
| The old priest Peter Gilligan |
| The Powers whose name and shape no living creature knows |
| The threefold terror of love; a fallen flare |
| The trees are in their autumn beauty |
| The true faith discovered was |
| The unpurged images of day recede |
| The woods of Arcady are dead |
| There is a queen in China, or maybe it’s in Spain |
| There is grey in your hair |
| There’s many a strong farmer |
| There was a green branch hung with many a bell |
| There was a man whom Sorrow named his friend |
| There where the course is |
| These are the clouds about the fallen sun |
| They hold their public meetings where |
| They must to keep their certainty accuse |
| Things out of perfection sail |
| This great purple butterfly |
| This night has been so strange that it seemed |
| This whole day have I followed in the rocks |
| ‘Those Platonists are a curse,’ he said |
| Though leaves are many, the root is one |
| ‘Though logic-choppers rule the town |
| Though nurtured like the sailing moon |
| Though the great song return no more |
| ‘Though to my feathers in the wet |
| Though you are in your shining days |
| Three old hermits took the air |
| Through intricate motions ran |
| Through winter-time we call on spring |
| Time drops in decay |
| ‘Time to put off the world and go somewhere |
| Toil and grow rich |
| Turning and turning in the widening gyre |
| Two heavy trestles, and a board |
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| Under my window-ledge the waters race |
| Undying love to buy |
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| Was it the double of my dream |
| We have cried in our despair |
| We sat together at one summer’s end |
| We sat under an old thorn-tree |
| We should be hidden from their eyes |
| We that have done and thought |
| We who are old, old and gay |
| Were you but lying cold and dead |
| ‘What do you make so fair and bright?’ |
| ‘What have I earned for all that work,’ I said |
| What lively lad most pleasured me |
| What need you, being come to sense |
| What’s riches to him |
| What shall I do with this absurdity |
| What they undertook to do |
| When all works that have |
| When have I last looked on |
| When her soul flies to the predestined dancing-place |
| When I play on my fiddle in Dooney |
| When my arms wrap you round I press |
| When the flaming lute-thronged angelic door is wide |
| When you are old and grey and full of sleep |
| Where dips the rocky highland |
| Where got I that truth? |
| Where had her sweetness gone? |
| Where has Maid Quiet gone to |
| Where, where but here have Pride and Truth |
| While I, from that reed-throated whisperer |
| While I wrought out these fitful Danaan rhymes |
| Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream? |
| Who talks of Plato’s spindle |
| Who will go drive with Fergus now |
| Wine comes in at the mouth |
| With the old kindness, the old distinguished grace |
| Would I could cast a sail on the water |
| ‘Would it were anything but merely voice!’ |
| Why should I blame her that she filled my days |
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| You gave, but will not give again |
| You say, as I have often given tongue |
| You waves, though you dance by my feet like children at play |
| You who are bent, and bald, and blind |
| ‘Your eyes that once were never weary of mine |
| Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood |
