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

What do we know but that we face one another in this place?

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.

If there's no hatred in a mind Assault and battery of the wind Can never tear the linnet from the leaf

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

The light of lights looks always on the motive, not the deed, the shadow of shadows on the deed alone.

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?