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?

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

Come let us mock at the great That had such burdens on the mind And toiled so hard and late To leave some monument behind, Nor thought of the leveling wind.

Fairies in Ireland are sometimes as big as we are, sometimes bigger, and sometimes, as I have been told, about three feet high.

Hearts are not had as a gift, But hearts are earned.

There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.

We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.