Blessed the geniuses who know / that egomania is not a duty.
the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.
Hindered characters / seldom have mothers / in Irish stories, but they all have grandmothers.
Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads.
As for butterflies, I can hardly conceive of one's attending upon you; but to question the congruence of the complement is vain, if it exists.
We don't like flowers that do not wilt; they must die, and nine she-camel hairs aid memory.