Talent perceives differences; genius, unity.

There is only one romance the Soul's.

Was it for this the wild geese spread The gray wing upon every tide; For this that all that blood was shed, For this. Edward Fitzgerald died, And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone, All that delirium of the brave? Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.

Everything we look upon is blest.

Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.

To be born woman is to know - although they do not speak of it at school - women must labor to be beautiful.