We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create.

rhetoric is will doing the work of imagination.

The Irishman sustains himself during brief periods of joy by the knowledge that tragedy is just around the corner.

All the wild-witches, those most notable ladies For all their broom-sticks and their tears, Their angry tears, are gone.

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet. She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her did not agree. In a field by the river my love and I did stand, And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand. She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

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

All empty souls tend toward extreme opinions.