The soul of man is of the imperishable substance of the stars!

There is only one romance the Soul's.

Wine enters through the mouth, Love, the eyes. I raise the glass to my mouth, I look at you, I sigh.

Imagining in excited reverie That the future years had come, Dancing to a frenzied drum, Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.

An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick

But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.

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.