Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.

Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.

Hearts are not had as a gift, But hearts are earned.

Love comes in at the eye.

Bid imagination run / Much on the Great Questioner; / What He can question, what if questioned I / Can with a fitting confidence reply.

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 woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed Gray Truth is now her painted toy.