We can only begin to live when we conceive life as Tragedy.

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

For the good are always the merry, / Save by an evil chance,/ And the merry love the fiddle,/ And the merry love to dance: / And when the folk there spy me,/ They will all come up to me, / With,”Here is the fiddler of Dooney!” / And dance like a wave of the sea.

Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.

Life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into a common light of common hours, Until old age brings the red flare again.

Mysticism has been in the past and probably ever will be one of the great powers of the world and it is bad scholarship to pretend the contrary.

The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.