A line will take us hours maybe; / Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, / Our stitching and unstitching has been naught... Better go down upon your marrow-bones / And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones... For to articulate sweet sounds together / Is to work harder than all these, and yet / Be thought an idler by the noisy set.

Cuchulain stirred, Stared on the horses of the sea, and heard The cars of battle and his own name cried; And fought with the invulnerable tide.

Even when the poet seems most himself . . . he is never the bundle of accident and incoherence that sits down to breakfast; he has been reborn as an idea, something intended, complete.

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

Once you attempt legislation upon religious grounds, you open the way for every kind of intolerance and religious persecution.

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

I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'