The world being illusive, one must be deluded in some way if one is to triumph in it.

Labor is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul, Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut tree, great-rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance How can we know the dancer from the dance?

It's certain there is no fine thing Since Adam's fall but needs much laboring.

Choose your companions from the best; Who draws a bucket with the rest soon topples down the hill.

For Death who takes what man would keep, Leaves what man would lose.

Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!

When you are old and gray and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.