Modern poets are bells of lead. They should tinkle melodiously but usually they just klunk.

It was the hour when gauze-winged insects are born that only live for a day.

And she would not hold back his limbs when his heart was gone to the woods, for it is ever the way of witches with any two things to care for the more mysterious of the two.

A man is a very small thing, and the night is very large and full of wonders.

Modern poets are bells of lead. They should tinkle melodiously but usually they just klunk.

Everyone's future is, in reality, uncertain and full of unknown treasures from which all may draw unguessed prizes.

I think that travel comes from some deep urge to see the world, like the urge that brings up a worm in an Irish bog to see the moon when it is full.