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

It's certain there are trout somewhere - And maybe I shall take a trout - but I do not seem to care.

On limestone quarried near the spot By his command these words are cut: Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by!

The Irishman sustains himself during brief periods of joy by the knowledge that tragedy is just around the corner.

Nothing but stillness can remain when hearts are full Of their own sweetness, bodies of their loveliness.

The only enemy of innocence and beauty is time.

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.