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

Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.

For to articulate sweet sounds together Is to work harder than all these, and yet Be thought an idler by the noisy set Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen The martyrs call the world.

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

Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic heart.

All empty souls tend toward extreme opinions.

All art is in the last analysis an endeavor to condense as out of the flying vapor of the world an image of human perfection, and for its own and not for the art's sake.