Tell me your past, my beloved, for a man is his past, and is to be known by it.

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.

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 . . .

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

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

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

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