It's certain that fine women eat A crazy salad with their meat.

But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.

I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal. The shallowest people on the ridge of the earth.

The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.

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

This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.

We are no petty people. We are one of the great stocks of Burke; we are the people of Swift, the people of Emmet, the people of Parnell. We have created most of the modern literature of this country. We have created the best of its political intelligence.