Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

There is another world, but it is in this one.

Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.

The labor of the alchemists, who were called artist in their day, is a befitting comparison for a deliberate change of style.

The Irishman sustains himself during brief periods of joy by the knowledge that tragedy is just around the corner.

...How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face... "When You Are Old And Gray

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