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.

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

The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.

Do not wait to strike till the iron is hot; but make it hot by striking.

I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .

I whispered, 'I am too young,' and then, 'I am old enough'; wherefore I threw a penny to find out if I might love.

I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember