Over our manhood bend the skies; Against our fallen and traitor lives The great winds utter prophecies; With our faint hearts the mountain strives, Its arms outstretched, the druid wood Waits with its benedicite And to our age’s drowsy blood Still shouts the inspiring sea.

Piety is indifferent whether she enters at the eye or at the ear. There is none of the senses at which she does not knock one day or other. The Puritans forgot this, and thrust Beauty out of the meeting-house and slammed the door in her face.

A poet must need be before his own age, to be even with posterity

Death is delightful. Death is dawn, The waking from a weary night Of fevers unto truth and light.

These pearls of thought in Persian gulfs were bred, Each softly lucent as a rounded moon; The diver Omar plucked them from their bed, Fitzgerald strung them on an English thread.

Let us be of good cheer, however, remembering that the misfortunes hardest to bear are those which never come.

And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days.