... love dreads being isolated, being left to speak in a void -- at the beginning it would often rather listen than speak.

Have not all poetic truths been already stated? The essence of a poetic truth is that no statement of it can be final.

Spoilt pleasure is a sad, unseemly thing; you can only bury it.

...though one can be callous in Ireland one cannot be wholly opaque or material. An unearthly disturbance works in the spirit; reason can never reconcile one to life; nothing allays the wants one cannot explain.

One can live in the shadow of an idea without grasping it.

When you love someone all your saved up wishes start coming out.

I suspect victims; they win in the long run.