Things said or done long years ago Or things I did not do or say But thought that I might say or do, Weigh me down, and not a day But something is recalled, My conscience or my vanity appalled.

Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

John Synge, I and Augusta Gregory, thought All that we did, all that we said or sang Must come from contact with the soil, from that Contact everything Antaeus-like grew strong.

I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'

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

I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.