The duty of a lyrical poet is not to express or explain, it is to intensify life.

Is it not possible that the ultimate end is gaiety and music and a dance of joy?

Let the past be content with itself, for man needs forgetfulness as well as memory

Finality is death. Perfection is finality. Nothing is perfect. There are lumps in it.

I came to the resolve that the attempt was not only worth trying, but should be tried in the very near future if we wanted at all to keep our flag flying; for I was sure as of my own existence that if another decade was allowed to pass without an endeavour of some kind or another to shake off an unjust yoke, the Irish people would sink into lethargy from which it would be impossible for any patriot . . . to arouse them . . .

I hear a sudden cry of pain! There is a rabbit in a snare.

Because our lives are cowardly and sly, Because we do not dare to take or give, Because we scowl and pass each other by, We do not live; we do not dare to live.