There never was a war that was not inward; I must fight till I have conquered in myself what causes war.

In a poem the words should be as pleasing to the ear as the meaning is to the mind.

If you will tell me why the fen appears impassable, I then will tell you why I think that I can cross it if I try.

If we can't be cordial to these creatures' fleece, I think that we deserve to freeze.

War is pillage versus resistance and if illusions of magnitude could be transmuted into ideals of magnanimity, peace might be realized.

[The] whirlwind fife-and-drum of the storm bends the salt marsh grass, disturbs stars in the sky and the star on the steeple; it is a privilege to see so much confusion.

I'm troubled. I'm dissatisfied. I'm Irish.