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?

I have known more men destroyed by the desire to have wife and child and to keep them in comfort than I have seen destroyed by drink and harlots.

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.

No man has ever lived that had enough of children's gratitude or woman's love.

Hearts are not had as a gift, But hearts are earned.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping...I hear it in the deep heart's core.

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