Some writers confuse authenticity, which they ought always to aim at, with originality, which they should never bother about.

Earth, receive an honored guest; William Yeats is laid to rest. Let the Irish vessel lie Emptied of its poetry.

Every man carries with him through life a mirror, as unique and impossible to get rid of as his shadow.

He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

Good can imagine Evil; but Evil cannot imagine Good.

'Healing,' Papa would tell me, 'is not a science, but the intuitive art of wooing nature.'

Music can be made anywhere, is invisible and does not smell.