Man can embody truth but he cannot know it.

I had still the ambition, formed in Sligo in my teens, of living in imitation of Thoreau on Innisfree, a little island in Lough Gill, and when walking through Fleet Street very homesick I heard a little tinkle of water and saw a fountain in a shop window which balanced a little ball upon its jet, and began to remember lake water. From the sudden remembrance came my poem Innisfree.

Bid imagination run / Much on the Great Questioner; / What He can question, what if questioned I / Can with a fitting confidence reply.

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.

Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams

I kiss you and kiss you, With arms around my own, Ah, how shall I miss you, When, dear, you have grown.

Wine enters through the mouth, Love, the eyes. I raise the glass to my mouth, I look at you, I sigh.