A poet creates tragedy from his own soul, that soul which is alike in all men, and at moments it has no joy, as we understand that word, for the soul is an exile and without will. It attains to ecstasy, which from the contemplation of things which are vaster than the individual and imperfectly seen, perhaps, by all those that still live.
William Butler Yeats, from Memoirs: Autobiography -- First Draft Journal
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