No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone.

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be: am an attendant lord, one that will do to swell a progress, start a scene or two, advise the prince.

Yeats was the greatest poet of our times . . . certainly the greatest in this language, and so far as I am able to judge, in any language.

Hungry Hatred, will not strive against intelligence self-interest.

We have all our private terrors, our particular shadows, our secret fears. We are afraid in a fear which we cannot face, which none understands, and our hearts are torn from us, our brains unskinned like the layers of an onion, ourselves the last.

Cling, swing, Spring, sing, Swing up into the apple tree.

This is one moment, / But know that another / Shall pierce you with a sudden painful joy.