In dreams begins responsibility.

How can the arts overcome the slow dying of men's hearts that we call progress ?

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

What do we know but that we face one another in this place?

The unpurged images of day recede; The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed; Night resonance recedes, night-walkers' song After great cathedral gong.

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.

Florence Farr once said to me, If we could say to ourselves, with sincerity, 'this passing moment is as good as any I shall ever know,' we could die upon the instant and be united with God.