I'm looking for the face I had, before the world was made.

An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick, unless soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing for every tatter in its mortal dress.

Cast your mind on other days that we in coming days may be still the indomitable Irishry.

What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident?

My wretched dragon is perplexed.

The pain others give passes away in their later kindness, but that of our own blunders, especially when they hurt our vanity, never passes away

I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death.