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

O but we dreamed to mend Whatever mischief seemed To afflict mankind, but now That winds of winter blow Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed.

I think all happiness depends on the energy to assume the mask of some other life, on a re-birth as something not one's self.

The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.

When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.

On limestone quarried near the spot By his command these words are cut: Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by!