I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams.

Supreme art is a traditional statement of certain heroic and religious truth, passed on from age to age, modified by individual genius, but never abandoned.

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.

I'm looking for the face I had, before the world was made.

I have grown to believe that there is no dangerous idea, which does not become less dangerous when written out in sincere and careful English.

Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.

We had fed the heart on fantasies, The heart's grown brutal from the fare, More substance in our enmities Than in our love