But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Hearts with one purpose alone/Through summer and winter seem/Enchanted to a stone/To trouble the living stream.

And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.

For the good are always the merry, / Save by an evil chance,/ And the merry love the fiddle,/ And the merry love to dance: / And when the folk there spy me,/ They will all come up to me, / With,”Here is the fiddler of Dooney!” / And dance like a wave of the sea.

I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind.

Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top.

Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.