One should not lose one's temper unless one is certain of getting more and more angry to the end.

If what I say resonates with you, it's merely because we're branches of the same tree.

Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top.

We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create.

I went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.

Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun.

The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.