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

Labor is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul, Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut tree, great-rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance How can we know the dancer from the dance?

The mystical life is at the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.

Fairies in Ireland are sometimes as big as we are, sometimes bigger, and sometimes, as I have been told, about three feet high.

It seems to me that true love is a discipline.

... Let the cage bird and the cage bird mate and the wild bird mate in the wild.

I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind.