Not a man alive has so much luck that he can play with it.

Everything exists, everything is true and the earth is just a bit of dust beneath our feet.

Myself I must remake.

I had still the ambition, formed in Sligo in my teens, of living in imitation of Thoreau on Innisfree, a little island in Lough Gill, and when walking through Fleet Street very homesick I heard a little tinkle of water and saw a fountain in a shop window which balanced a little ball upon its jet, and began to remember lake water. From the sudden remembrance came my poem Innisfree.

Cast a cold eye on life, on death Horseman pass by

An intellectual hate is the worst.

Homer is my example and his unchristened heart.