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.

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.

How beautiful are dreams! In dreams the dead may live, even the long dead and the very silent.

Logic, like whiskey, loses its beneficial effect when taken in too large quantities.

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

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

Yet in the blood of man there is a tide, an old sea-current, rather, that is somehow akin to the twilight, which brings him rumours of beauty from however far away, as drift-wood is found at sea from islands not yet discovered; and this spring-tide or current that visits the blood of man comes from the fabulous quarter of his lineage, from the legendary, of old; it takes him out to the woodlands, out to the hills; he listens to ancient song.