On limestone quarried near the spot By his command these words are cut: Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by!

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.

What's memory but the ash That chokes our fires that have begun to sink?

The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.

Time can but make her beauty over again.

I am of a healthy long lived race, and our minds improve with age.

A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard A voice singing on a May Eve like this, And followed half awake and half asleep, Until she came into the Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue. And she is still there, busied with a dance Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood, Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.