The chances are that, in the course of his lifetime, the major poet will write more bad poems than the minor, simply because major poets write a lot.

An unmanly sort of man whose love life seems to have been largely confined to crying in laps and playing mouse.

If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving be me.

All good art is in the nature of a letter written to amuse a sick friend. Too much art, particularly in our time, is only a letter written to oneself.

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

To ask the hard question is simple.

Beauty, midnight, vision dies: Let the winds of dawn that blow Softly round your dreaming head Such a day of welcome show Eye and knocking heart may bless, Find our mortal world enough; Noons of dryness find you fed By the involuntary powers, Nights of insult let you pass Watched by every human love.