Nor dread nor hope attend a dying animal; a man awaits his end dreading and hoping all.

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.

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.

It was my first meeting with a philosophy that confirmed my vague speculations and seemed at once logical and boundless.

You think it horrible that lust and rage Should dance attention upon my old age; They were not such a plague when I was young; What else have I to spur me into song?

I Sing what was lost and dread what was won, / I walk in a battle fought over again.

No man has ever lived that had enough of children's gratitude or woman's love.