If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
William Butler YeatsRead
This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.
Interpretation
The quote expresses a deep sense of loss and the haunting presence of souls in the city of London.
William Butler Yeats reflects on the profound melancholia of London, suggesting that the spirits of lost souls roam its streets eternally. This evokes a poignant image of their lingering presence, highlighting themes of loss and the unseen connection between the living and the dead, creating a vivid atmosphere of sorrow intertwined with urban life.
In practice
In a speech about the history of London, one might use this quote to express the city's profound sense of history and memory.
If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
It was my first meeting with a philosophy that confirmed my vague speculations and seemed at once logical and boundless.
But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.
For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.
Love is created and preserved by intellectual analysis, for we love only that which is unique, and it belongs to contemplation, not to action, for we would not change that which we love.
My soul, be satisfied with flowers, with fruit, with weeds even; but gather them in the one garden you may call your own.
The first thing you must do is forget that I'm Black. Second, you must never forget that I'm Black.
There are two great classes of men: the people and the scholars, the men of science. For the former, nothing exists but that which directly leads to action. It is for the latter to see beyond. They are the free artists who create the future and its history, the conscious architects of the world.
One has to have a complicated kind of optimism. You can't refuse to look at how horrible things are.
Bridge-players tell me that there must be some money on the game 'or else people won't take it seriously'. Apparently it's like that. Your bid - for God or no God, for a good God or the Cosmic Sadist, for eternal life or nonentity - will not be serious if nothing much is staked on it. And you will never discover how serious it was until the stakes are raised horribly high, until you find that you are playing not for counters or for sixpences but for every penny you have in the world.
Behind it all is surely an idea so simple, so beautiful, that when we grasp it - in a decade, a century, or a millennium - we will all say to each other, how could it have been otherwise? How could we have been so stupid?
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