There is no topicmore soporific and generally boring than the topic of Ireland as Ireland, as a nation.

USURY is the cancer of the world, which only the surgeon’s knife of Fascism can cut out of the life of the nations.

And the days are not full enough And the nights are not full enough And life slips by like a field mouse Not shaking the grass

I have tried to write Paradise Do not move Let the wind speak that is paradise. Let the Gods forgive what I have made Let those I love try to forgive what I have made.

My pawing over the ancients and semi-ancients has been one struggle to find out what has been done, once and for all, better than it can ever be done again, and to find out what remains for us to do, and plenty does remain, for if we still feel the same emotions as those who launched a thousand ships, it is quite certain that we came on these feelings differently, through different nuances, by different intellectual gradations. Each age has its own abounding gifts yet only some ages transmute them into matters of duration.

Poets who are not interested in music are, or become, bad poets.

The flavors of the peach and the apricot are not lost from generation to generation. Neither are they transmitted by book learning.