We don't like flowers that do not wilt; they must die, and nine she-camel hairs aid memory.

I see no reason for calling my work poetry except that there is no other category in which to put it.

The heart that gives, gathers.

Not till the poets among us can be "literalists of the imagination"-above insolence and triviality and can present for inspection, "imaginary gardens with real toads in them." shall we have it.

One detects creative power by its capacity to conquer one's detachment.

Hindered characters / seldom have mothers / in Irish stories, but they all have grandmothers.

he who gives quickly gives twice / in nothing so much as in a letter.