My wretched dragon is perplexed.

but one loses, as one grows older, something of the lightness of one's dreams; one begins to take life up in both hands, and to care more for the fruit than the flower, and that is no great loss perhaps.

An intellectual hate is the worst.

The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.

All that we did, all that we said or sang must come from contact with the soil.

Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic heart.

The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.