Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.

What's memory but the ash That chokes our fires that have begun to sink?

I have found nothing half so good / As my long-planned half solitude, / Where I can sit up half the night / With some friend that has the wit.

An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick

We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.

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

If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.