The Irish say your trouble is their trouble and your joy their joy? I wish I could believe it; I am troubled, I'm dissatisfied, I'm Irish.

The heart that gives, gathers.

Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads.

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

There is no pleasure subtler than the sensation of being a good workman; and in work there is the sense of consanguinity-unconscious as a rule but sometimes conscious.

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.

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